Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gotham City

July 9th – 00:27 EDT

Rain slicked the city in steel and shadow, gilding rooftops in liquid mercury. It fell in sheets, relentless, hammering the crumbling skyline like war drums echoing through a battlefield long since lost. The downpour blurred neon signs into bleeding wounds of colour and churned the gutters into rivers of ash and oil.

From her perch above the East End, Gotham looked like it was holding its breath, coiled and twitching beneath layers of smoke, sin, and electricity. Street lamps buzzed and stuttered, casting jaundiced halos over broken pavement. Light leaked from shattered windows like lifeblood from a dying animal. Somewhere beyond the docks, a siren wailed, lonely and mechanical. A gunshot cracked the silence three blocks east.

No screams. No scrambling feet.

Just Gotham, watching itself rot.

Nyx crouched low at the rooftop’s edge, a silhouette carved from the city’s darkest corners. One gloved hand hovered above the ledge, fingers curled like talons poised to strike. Her presence didn’t blend into the scene, it swallowed it. Her suit drank the light, stitched in silence and sharpened in secrecy. Her mask clung to her like a second skin, matte as soot, carved in the soft, inhuman angles of something the night itself might wear.

Below, four guards stalked the warehouse perimeter, all bravado and borrowed menace. One leaned against the loading dock, grease-slick fingers pulling limp fries from a paper bag. His other hand hovered near his pistol like it might impress someone.

She pressed her comm. Her voice was a whisper dipped in disdain. “Four guards. One’s losing a battle with saturated fats.”

Batman’s voice crackled in her ear, low and jagged as a landslide. “Perimeter’s yours. I’ll breach from above.”

Nyx’s lips tilted into something crooked and sardonic. “Naturally. Wouldn’t want to skip the theatrics.”

“I don’t do theatrics.”

She snorted softly. “Right. You just appear. Like wrath incarnate.”

Silence. She rose, unfolding from shadow, and stepped off the rooftop without a whisper of sound. She didn’t fall. She descended. Gliding from one ledge to the next, she moved like something glimpsed from the corner of the eye, fluid, shapeless, gone before the brain could scream. Her boots kissed the concrete, not a sound out of place. One breath, one motion. Her fingers twitched, and shadows peeled away from her spine like smoke responding to a silent command. A ribbon of darkness slid across the alley, winding low to the ground.

It snagged the distracted guard’s ankle with a hiss of movement. He had time to blink once before she yanked. He dropped hard. The fries scattered like shrapnel. His head hit the pavement with a dull thud.

Nyx exhaled through her nose, already moving. “One down. Fries secured.”

Inside, silence detonated.

Batman fell from the rafters like the blade of God, fast, final, unforgiving. A grunt turned, eyes going wide. Too late. A gloved hand closed around his collar and slammed him into the concrete. Another went for his weapon, Batman drove an elbow into his ribs before he could clear the holster. The man folded like scaffolding in a storm.

Nyx slipped through the side entrance just as the third guard spun to face her. His fear arrived too late to save him.

“Hi,” she said, almost gently.

He charged.

She moved sideways, not dodging so much as ceasing to exist in his path. Her arm snapped up; her elbow met the temple. He reeled. She pivoted, let her momentum carry her into a knee to the gut, then a sharp twist that sent him sprawling. No alarms. No screams. Three minutes. Four guards. Zero mercy.

She stepped over a cracked crate and into the warehouse proper. Batman was crouched beside the last conscious guard, binding his wrists with methodical precision. She gave a low whistle as she approached.

“Well, aren’t you efficient?”

He didn’t look up. “One of us has to be.”

She cocked her head, eyes narrowing behind the mask. “Is that Bat-humour? Mark the date.”

He straightened and nodded toward the secured cargo. “You hesitated.”

Nyx didn’t flinch. “I was assessing. Or do we not believe in observation anymore?”

“You admired my form,” he said flatly.

“I’m thorough.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.”

He turned toward her then, face half-lit by the strobes of lightning flashing beyond the broken skylight. His expression didn’t shift. It didn’t need to.

“You’re faster,” he said. “More precise.”

She gave a small nod, the closest she’d come to accepting praise from him aloud.

“You’re angrier,” he added.

Her jaw tensed behind the mask. “That's your new training metric?”

“It’s an observation.”

She let the silence stretch between them like drawn wire. “And you’re brooding harder than usual. Must be the rain. Very dramatic.”

He didn’t respond. Not right away. Then, low and deliberate: “Be careful.”

Her smirk fractured. That wasn’t a command. That wasn’t a strategy. It was something close to concern.

“I’m always careful.”

“You’re reckless,” he said, stepping past her. “You just hide it better than most.”

She watched him go. Watched the rain swallow him, cape trailing behind him like the city’s shadow given shape. Then she turned back to the open warehouse door, to the storm beyond, to the city that demanded masks and gave nothing in return. Gotham rose before her like a wounded animal, lights flickering in the glass like heartbeats skipping toward flatline. Its towers reached the sky, trying to claw their way into something cleaner, something kinder. She inhaled. The air was blood-warm and bitter with rust. Rain slicked her shoulders. Thunder curled along the skyline like a growl.

Gotham didn’t know her name.

But it would.

Chapter Text

Mount Justice

August 8th – 15:03 EDT

[Recognised: Green Arrow, 08; Artemis, B-07; Nyx, B-08.]

The air in the Cave shifted.

A subtle hum echoed off the stone walls as the Zeta Tube flared to life, its glow casting a brief shimmer across the team. Batman turned first, and the rest of the young heroes followed suit, eyes narrowing as the light dimmed and three figures stepped out of the portal.

To the left of Green Arrow, a tall, lean girl emerged with an easy confidence. Her stance was casual but deliberate, hands resting on her hips as she swept her gaze over the team. Her tan skin caught the warm overhead lighting, and black curls flowed in silken waves down to her waist. Perched on her nose were sleek black glasses—similar in design to Robin’s—partially obscuring her sharp, wide-set brown eyes. But the intensity of her gaze was unmistakable as it flicked from one face to the next, analysing, assessing.

For a heartbeat, the Cave held its breath.

Then, the moment was disrupted.

“My name is M’gann M’orzz,” the green-skinned girl said brightly, her voice warm and inviting. She floated slightly off the ground as she gestured to the others. “This is Superboy, Kaldur, and Robin.” The three boys nodded at the two newcomers.

The silence stretched for a beat longer as all eyes turned back to the two girls.

“Artemis, Green Arrow’s protégé,” said the blonde archer beside Green Arrow, stepping forward with a flick of her ponytail. Her tone was clipped, almost challenging.

“I thought there were supposed to be five of you.” The wavy-haired girl raised an eyebrow at the four teens, lips curling into the faintest hint of a smirk.

“There are. We are currently awaiting Kid Flash’s arrival–” Kaldur began, his voice calm and measured.

“The Wall-man is here! Now, let’s get this party star—” A blur zipped into view before abruptly halting mid-sentence. The speedster’s momentum betrayed him, and he crashed spectacularly to the floor, landing face-first with a grunt. “—ted,” he finished, voice muffled against the smooth stone.

The girl with the glasses blinked, unimpressed. “Smooth entrance,” she said with a subtle giggle.

“Wally, please,” Robin muttered, dragging a hand down his face as Artemis rolled her eyes in front of him.

“Okay, now we’re five,” Superboy said flatly, arms crossed over his chest.

Wally pushed himself up with a sheepish grin, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulders. “I meant to do that. Adds flair.”

“Flair,” the new girl echoed, clearly amused. “Sure.”

“Wall-man, huh? I love the uniform.” Artemis tilted her head tauntingly at him. “What exactly are your powers?” 

“Uh, who’s this?” Wally pointed at Artemis as he addressed the other members of the team.

“Artemis, your new teammate.”

“Kid Flash. Never heard of you.” He smirked.

“Um, she’s my new protégé.” Green Arrow’s unsteady voice cut in from behind her.

“What happened to your old one?” The speedster exclaimed, looking around before his eyes stopped on an unfamiliar face. “Woah. Now, who are you ?” 

“Nyx.” She smiled coyly.

“So… Artemis and Nyx are the goddess aliases, a trademark of Green Arrow’s new, shiny collection of protégés?” His demeanour is now standoffish, almost as if he were offended by their presence.

“Uh, no, Nyx here isn’t my protégé.” The rest of the team donned puzzled looks on their faces.

“Well, if she’s not your protégé, then whose protégé is she?” Robin asked.

“She’s mine,” Batman said dryly. Robin's face contorted into an array of emotions. The rest of the team glanced at Robin, hoping for answers.

Batman’s newest — and most secret — protégé. How did Robin not know of her? More importantly, why didn’t Robin know of her? Her presence had been kept so far under wraps, even he hadn’t heard a whisper of her, not a single file titled “Nyx” anywhere on the Batcave system. He was pissed.

Now, watching her stand there like royalty, like she owned the damn place. Robin narrowed his eyes behind his own pair of glasses. Everything about her screamed control, precision, and power.

Robin’s eyes flicked up and down like he was scanning her for a weak point — or a punchline.

“Batman really outdid himself this time,” he muttered. “Didn’t even tell me.” 

“Must sting,” Nyx replied, looking down at Robin, voice silken as shadow, her smile slight. “Being left out of the loop. Isn’t that usually your game?” She spoke with a practised charm that made him bristle — not because she wasn’t impressive.

Because she was.

Robin’s jaw tightened, but the corner of his mouth quirked, just barely.

Wally cleared his throat loudly. “Okay, so… are we just gonna ignore the fact she looks like she walked off the cover of a magazine?”

Artemis, arms crossed, leaned against the console. “Maybe Wall-man over here just wants her number.” He scowled at her.

"Can you blame me?” Wally shot back. “Tall, tan, gorgeous, presumably deadly—definitely my type.”

Nyx tilted her head, a single brow rising behind her glasses. “Bold, I mean, for someone usually dressed in neon.”

That got a bark of laughter from Artemis and a girlish giggle from M’gann.

“Okay, okay!” M’gann said, trying to restore order, though even she was smiling. “Batman didn’t give us much information, just that you’d be joining the team. So… welcome! We’re glad to have you.”

Nyx’s gaze flicked to her, eyes softening. “Thank you, M’gann.” M’gann lit up like a lantern.

Robin was still watching her like she was a puzzle no one warned him about. One, he didn’t like not having the pieces to.

“So,” he said, arms folded. “Nyx, Goddess of night, huh? Sounds dramatic.”

“I find it fitting,” she said smoothly. “Goddess of night,” she repeated. “Shadows. Secrets.”

He raised a brow. “Wow. That’s not ominous at all.” Not amused by her presence.

“I am what I am.”

“And what is that?” Robin stared at her.

“A shadowmancer.”

“I, for one, am really glad you joined. Has anyone ever told you that you are a total babe?” Wally added, flashing what he probably thought was a ‘babe-winning smile.’

The reaction was immediate. Kaldur gave a sigh so quiet it was practically inaudible. Artemis muttered something under her breath that definitely sounded like “idiot.” Superboy looked like he wanted to vanish entirely or maybe smash his head against the wall of the main room.

Nyx raised her brows at Wally, her lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile. “No, never,” she said in a tone so sarcastically innocent it practically dripped with mockery.

Wally blinked. “Wait, really? I totally would’ve thought–”

“She’s messing with you, genius.” Artemis deadpanned.

“That was a joke, Wally,” Robin muttered, not bothering to hide his smirk. “You’ve been played.”

M’gann let out a laugh, trying to stifle it behind her hand. Even Superboy’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to be amused.

Wally looked between them, then back to Nyx, whose expression hadn’t changed—still calm, still entertained.

He sighed, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay! I walked right into that one.”

“Ran,” Robin corrected. “You ran into it. At full speed.”

Nyx shrugged. “To be fair, it was kind of adorable.”

Wally brightened instantly. “Wait— was ?”

“Don’t push it,” she replied, already turning away.

[Recognised: Speedy, B-06.]

The Zeta Tube flared once more. A figure stepped through with the same practised confidence as the others—but his expression was hard, lips pressed into a thin line.

“And to think there’d be more sidekicks willing to line up for this circus.” The voice dripped with sarcasm and disdain.

Nyx turned, eyeing the newcomer with measured interest. His red suit was familiar, but she didn’t recognise the masked face. Not that he seemed to care. His sharp gaze skimmed past her like she didn’t exist.

“Roy, you look—” Green Arrow started, taking a cautious step forward.

“—Replaceable,” Roy snapped. “Can she even use that bow?”

“She can,” Artemis cut in sharply, stepping forward.

“ Who are you?” Wally passionately exclaimed.

“I’m his niece.”

“She’s my niece,” Green Arrow echoed, both of them speaking in practised unison like it was a line they’d rehearsed too many times. Nyx tilted her head, watching the exchange like she was already picking it apart.

“Another niece?” Robin smirked, clearly amused. “How many siblings do you have, GA?”

“She is not your replacement,” Kaldur said, stepping forward with calm authority. “We’ve always wanted you on the team, Roy. And we don’t have a quota on archers.”

“And if we did,” Wally chimed in, grinning, “you know who we’d pick.”

Immediately, both Nyx and Artemis turned and fixed him with synchronised glares.

Wally blinked and rubbed the back of his neck. “What? I was just—never mind.”

“Whatever, Baywatch, I’m here to stay.” Artemis crossed her arms.

Nyx crossed her arms too, her eyebrow arched. “Aw. I missed the part where someone invited you.”

Roy finally looked at her—properly looked at her. “And what does the other one do?” he asked, like he was already unimpressed.

“The other one ?” Nyx scoffed and took a step closer, unbothered by his glare. “The ‘other one’ can do everything you can’t.”

Roy’s lip curled. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know reading a room, not storming off when I don’t get what I want, staying relevant. Should I keep going?”

The Cave went quiet for a beat. 

“I like her,” Artemis muttered under her breath to M’gann, a smirk tugging at her lips.

“And whose protégé are you?” Roy sneered. “Didn’t know the League’s new hobby was picking up trash off the side of the street.” Nyx’s expression didn’t waver as she stared him down.

“Nyx is my protégé,” Batman repeated calmly, unfazed by the tense atmosphere consuming the room.

The former protégé sharply turned to Robin. “Guess I’m not the only one getting replaced.” 

Robin clenched his jaw. He tried to play it off, crossing his arms in practised indifference. “You weren’t replaced,” he said evenly. “You quit.”

“Robin and Nyx are both serving as members of this team,” Batman interjected, eyes narrowing at Roy. “No one is replacing anyone.”

“Except one of them was top secret,” Robin muttered, his voice laced with bitterness. “Even from me.”

Nyx tilted her head slightly but said nothing. She didn’t need to. The silence carried weight.

Kaldur, ever the peacekeeper, redirected the moment. “You came to us for a reason, Roy.”

Roy finally pulled his focus away from Nyx. “Yeah. A reason named Dr. Serling Roquette.”

He moved to the console, bringing up a schematic of microscopic drones—the F.O.G. weapon.

“She’s being hunted by the League of Shadows,” he explained. “She built this… thing. Millions of nano-sized robots working in tandem—capable of eating through any encryption on the planet.”

“Perfect for extortion, manipulation—” Artemis began.

“—and power brokering,” Nyx finished, stepping forward to study the screen. “A weapon that doesn’t just destroy. It controls .”

Roy glanced at her briefly, reluctant but mildly impressed. A little more than he wanted to be.

“Yeah,” he admitted.

Artemis scoffed. “Sounds just like the Shadows. Wouldn’t be their first time playing puppet master.”

Wally raised a brow and laughed, trying to cut through the rising tension with mockery. “Like you two know anything about the Shadows.”

Artemis didn’t rise to the bait. She just gave Wally a slow, smug smile, brows raised in amusement.

Wally blinked. “Okay—seriously. Who are you!?”

Green Arrow stepped forward, turning to Roy. “You and I will make sure Roquette stays safe.”

“You and I?” Roy echoed, incredulous. “Replacing your shiny new protégé with the original model already?”

Green Arrow tensed but didn’t respond.

Batman stepped forward, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. “You brought this mission to the team,” he said. “Which means it’s their op now.”

“And that includes her,” Green Arrow added, nodding toward Nyx.

Roy scoffed, shaking his head. “Then my work here is done.” He turned on his heel, heading for the Zeta Tube.

[Recognised: Speedy–]

“That’s Red Arrow, B-06. Update the system,” he snapped over his shoulder just before the tube lit up and swallowed him whole. The light faded, and silence filled the room for a moment.

Then, Superboy exhaled. “What’s his deal?”

Nyx finally looked away from the monitor, her voice dry. “Insecurity, mostly.” 

Artemis gave her a look, signalling that they were on the same page.

Kaldur turned to the group. “We leave in five. Protecting Dr. Roquette is our top priority.”

As they all turned toward the hangar, Nyx moved to follow, but paused just beside Robin. “Guess it’s time to play nice, Boy Wonder,” Nyx said, not quite looking at him.

Robin gave her the smallest of smirks. “Don’t worry, Darkness. I’m great at pretending.”

She turned and walked away, her slightly curly waves bouncing with each step, the faintest hint of shadow trailing in her wake like smoke on the air. Robin stared after her, every instinct in his body screaming that she was more than just a secret of Batman’s.

Wally leaned in. “So… she totally just flirted with you, right?”

Robin didn’t answer.

Because yeah—she did. Didn’t she? Why would she? Well, if she did, he wasn’t even mad about it.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The team continued to move towards the hangar in a silent current of motion, boots tapping softly against the metal floor. Artemis walked just ahead of Nyx, her gait loose, casual—like a Cheshire cat who’d just claimed its territory. She glanced back once, eyes flicking over Nyx with something that almost looked like approval.

“Suit up,” Kaldur said. 

Nyx followed the others toward the lockers, expression unreadable. She’d seen her gear when Batman first briefed her on her recruitment as his protégé, but this was the first time stepping into it as part of the team.

She stepped into the changing area and opened her assigned locker. Inside hung her suit, built sleek and seamless: matte black, the fabric somewhere between tactical armour and liquid shadow, laced with subtle hints of deep violet that shimmered when they caught the light just right. The material shimmered subtly when she moved, like shadow-made silk. The neckline rose to a sharp collar, echoing the uniform design shared by the majority of the team, and the bodysuit hugged her slender frame tightly, lightweight, flexible, and designed for silent movement. Thin channels of deep violet circuitry pulsed faintly along her forearms and calves. They weren’t just for show—they were amplifiers, tuned to her abilities. Despite its coverage from neck to boots, the suit was far from modest. Around her waist, the suit parted in fluid, sweeping cutouts—like shadows curling around moonlight—revealing glimpses of skin in a design that felt more like a natural wisp of darkness than fabric by design.

Her mask wasn’t a traditional one, not moulded from hard material or strapped in place. It was a living extension of her powers. It looked as though shadows were drawn across her face like silk in motion. They curled gently around her cheekbones and eyes, dark tendrils forming a sleek, angular shape that shifted subtly as she breathed. It looked as though the night itself had traced her features—whisper-thin lines coiling just beneath her eyes, tapering into the curve of her jaw like a second skin. Violet accents pulsed faintly beneath the surface, giving her gaze an otherworldly intensity.

When she stepped back into view, the room quieted briefly.

“Okay, wow,” Wally said, doing an obvious double-take. “So… that’s terrifying and hot. Love that for us.”

Robin rolled his eyes. “Subtle, KF. Real subtle.” His own gaze lingered on Nyx just a moment too long. A flicker of something crossed his face—thoughtful, guarded. His fingers flexed once at his belt, then stilled.

Artemis and Kaldur clocked it instantly. They didn’t say anything, just filed it away. Their eyes flicked from Robin to Nyx and back again, narrowed slightly—not suspicious, but aware. Watching. Nyx gave a languid blink and passed by Wally without acknowledgement.

Artemis raised a brow, smirking at M’gann. “Told you I liked her.”

Before they could board the Bioship, M’gann turned toward the group. “Okay, mental link is live in three… two…”

Nyx barely had time to ask what she meant before—

“Whoa. What is–”

The rush of other minds hit her like a wave. Thoughts not her own, snippets of voices, emotions bleeding at the edges. Her fists clenched instinctively, shadows curling along her fingers like smoke.

“Easy, it’s just the link,” M’gann’s voice chimed gently in her head. “I set it up so we can communicate telepathically during missions. It’s safe.”

“Define 'safe,'” Nyx thought sharply. Her voice echoed across the link.

“You’ll get used to it,” Robin offered coolly. “Eventually.”

“Some of us faster than others,” Wally added, not bothering to hide the smirk in his tone.

Nyx didn’t respond, but a subtle ripple of darkness slid across the floor at her feet like an unconscious twitch. Artemis noticed it and smiled.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Happy Harbour High School

August 8th – 21:59 EDT

The team had been dispatched to protect Dr. Roquette and prevent the League of Shadows from deploying their nanotech weapon, the F.O.G., at STAR Labs. Tension was high, but there was no time to second-guess—not with assassins in play. They arrived just before midnight. Robin was already grumbling about the building’s limited access points. Kid Flash was fidgeting. Artemis, Miss M, and Superboy stood silently near the rear, scanning the perimeter. Rather, Artemis and Miss M were. Superboy was just standing there, eyes forward. Kaldur issued orders over the psychic link, organising defensive placements. And Nyx?

Nyx was gone.

“Where’s your shadow friend?” Kid Flash muttered to Artemis over the psychic link.

“Already inside,” came Nyx’s reply, cool and faint—like wind moving through a tunnel.

Unseen above them, a flicker of motion passed across the rafters. A darker blot of shadow slid against the gloom—subtle, soundless. In the flicker of a security light, for just a moment, they saw her. She crouched along the support beams, her matte-black suit vanishing against the dark. 

Then she was gone again—slipping into the darkness, pulled apart like smoke in the wind. 

“She gives me the creeps,” Kid Flash muttered quietly.

Robin didn’t answer. His eyes tracked the space where she’d been, scanning for any trace. He’d watched her dissolve-no, no, meld —into the shadows like they were part of her. She wasn’t slipping through them but becoming them. How had Batman kept her a secret from him and the team for so long? Was she a secret from the entire League, too?

Aqualad’s voice was calm but firm. “Keep positions. If the League comes, we must hold the line.”

Nyx moved unlike anyone the team had seen before. While the others approached with formation and discipline, she was something else entirely—untethered, spectral. She never walked into a room so much as appeared in it. Her body flowed with the darkness like smoke through cracks, limbs blurring into mist and shadow as if the very laws of physics bent around her. It wasn’t teleportation—it was something older. Stranger. More like the night itself was carrying her, pulling her from shadow to shadow in a serpentine dance.

“Okay, that’s definitely something I’ve read in Harry Potter,” Kid Flash said through the psychic link, eyes wide.

“I’m surprised you even know how to read,” Artemis fired.

“Who is Harry Potter?” Miss M asked, curious.

“Only the greatest wizard ever,” Kid Flash replied, still staring at where Nyx had vanished. “Well… second to Zatara. Maybe.”

“Focus,” Aqualad said sharply across the psychic link, cutting through the static of their tension. “The League won’t wait for banter.”

Robin’s eyes flicked to his tablet. “Motion sensors just pinged—south stairwell. Three signatures. Fast. Light.”

“The League of Shadows,” Artemis confirmed, already nocking an arrow.

The hallway lights buzzed overhead, flickering once… twice…

A crash of glass.

Black-Clad assassins burst through second-floor windows. Smoke bombs rolled across the freshly waxed linoleum of the science wing, cloaking everything in grey. The League of Shadows flowed through the haze like silent ghosts, precise and deadly.

Superboy met the first one with brute force, slamming them into a bank of lockers. M’gann threw another down the stairwell with a telekinetic shove. Kaldur and Artemis held the main corridor, moving in synchronised defence just outside the physics lab. But through the chaos, something else stepped through the smoke.

Sleek. Graceful. Deadly.

Cheshire.

She moved like water given blades—fluent in every motion, twirling twin daggers in hands that could kill a man before he blinked. The emergency lights overhead flickered crimson as she advanced. Her target was clear: Dr. Roquette, cornered near the chem lab’s emergency exit.

“Go!” Robin barked, flinging a batarang toward her path.

Cheshire ducked, flipped, and surged forward—

Then the power died. Every light blinked out. Total darkness.

A heartbeat later, something shifted in the air—like a pressure drop, a wrongness just beyond hearing. The kind of silence that makes your skin crawl. Then Cheshire stopped—jerked mid-step. A black tendril curled out of the hallway floor, clinging to her ankle like tar come to life. It yanked her backwards with impossible force.

She spun, slashing at the shadow—but more tendrils rose from the lockers, the ceiling tiles, even the gaps beneath classroom doors. They slid up her arms, coiling with unnatural hunger. From the far end of the hallway, Nyx emerged, half-draped in crawling shadow. Smoke curled from her limbs like living ink, her eyes glowing faint violet beneath the mask.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” She said, voice low and cold.

Cheshire hurled a blade at her. Nyx disintegrated into smoke. The dagger slammed into a locker. Then she reformed on the ceiling, crouched like a spider, upside down, wreathed in living shadow. And the hunt began.

“She’s toying with her,” Artemis said, half in awe.

“Why is she toying with her? She should finish her off and help keep the assassins off the Doctor,” Superboy grunted as he hurled another one out of a window.

“She’s like if Batman and a horror movie had a baby,” Kid Flash sighed. “A beautifully terrifying baby.”

“We must assist,” Aqualad began.

“No, Aqualad,” Robin cut in. “She’s not losing. She’s orchestrating . Look.”

Cheshire swung wildly at nothing, shadows that taunted and vanished. Then, without warning a needle-thin dart flew from Cheshire’s wrist launcher and embedded in Kid Flash’s neck.

“OW—Hey, what the—” he staggered.

Then crumpled.

“Kid Flash!” Miss M dropped the assassin she was attacking and flew towards him. “He’s not breathing—he’s—!”

Without hesitating, she dropped beside him and tilted his head back. Her hands were firm but shaking. Then she breathed into his mouth, one rhythm, then two-- a sputter.

KF gasped loudly, blinking in dazed confusion. “Whoa... hey... what did I miss?”

Miss M placed a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Yep. Totally worth it,” he wheezed, still lying on the floor.

Meanwhile, Cheshire twisted, trying to break free—just in time for Nyx to strike. She surged upward from the shadows beneath her, knee colliding hard with Cheshire’s ribs before vanishing back into the dark. The assassin reeled, eyes narrowing beneath her mask.

“What are you?” she hissed.

Nyx’s voice came from everywhere at once, echoing between walls, lockers, and shadows.

“Night.” 

Shadows erupted—dozens of tendrils snaring her limbs mid-lunge, dragging her up and pinning her to the ceiling like an insect caught in a web. But just before Nyx could finish it, a smoke pellet detonated from Cheshire’s belt. The world went white and screaming, and when the haze cleared—

She was gone.

Escaped into the night like a bad dream. Desks overturned. Lockers crumpled. The air still tasted like smoke and ozone. Shadows slowly pulled back from the walls, melting away like reluctant guests. The team regrouped in the ruined hallway.

Kid Flash blinked up at Nyx from where he sat. “So... do your shadows do birthday parties? Or just nightmare fuel?”

Nyx briefly smiled in response.

“She saved Roquette,” Artemis said, glancing her way. “And all of us.”

Kid Flash suddenly turned to Artemis. “How’d that shadow get in?!”

Artemis narrowed her eyes at Kid Flash.

Miss M approached them both. “That’s not really fair. I was on patrol, too.”

“On patrol, being distracted by her. Besides, I can’t be mad at you.” Kid Flash continued, but this time through the psychic link, “You gave me mouth-to-mouth.”

“We heard that!” The entire team screamed over the link in unison. Their voices overlapping in horror.

Nyx, still half-shadowed even in the fluorescent lighting of the school, tilted her head. “Where are Robin and Superboy?” she asked, scanning the now mostly clear hallway. “They didn’t fall behind.”

Before Aqualad could answer, his comm crackled.

“Robin to Aqualad,” came the crisp voice through the line. “We’re over Philadelphia. Located the Shadows’ next target: Star Labs.” There’s a slight pause. “We’re too late. It’s destroyed. Totally destroyed. The F.O.G. decimated it. This is bad. Star Labs is cutting-edge science, and now their secrets are in the hands of the enemy. What’s our next move?”

Aqualad pressed two fingers to his comm, “Rescan for that F.O.G. Find it.” He nodded to the rest of the team. “We’re moving the Doctor. Now.” He turned to Nyx, pausing for just a breath. “You were an asset.”

Kid Flash muttered, “I’m surprised I didn’t have a heart attack…”

“Keep talking,” Artemis said, brushing past him. “Next time, I’ll get Miss M to let you choke.”

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Unknown Location

August 8th – 23:21 EDT

The night air was thick with humidity and tension. The flickering glow of emergency lights cast jagged shadows across the cracked pavement outside the building where they had relocated Dr Roquette.

Artemis stood tall, her bow taut, an arrow nocked and aimed directly at Cheshire, who stood calmly beneath the flickering lights, unarmed but unfazed. Her mask lay forgotten at her feet, cracked and glinting like discarded porcelain.

“Don’t move a muscle,” Artemis said coldly.

Inside, the sounds of battle still echoed—shouts, crashing metal, the hum of psychic energy, and the ominous presence of Nyx’s shadows. The rest of the team were clearing the facility, fending off the remaining League of Shadows operatives as Dr. Roquette worked quickly to disable the F.O.G.

Outside, it was just them.

“Wow,” Cheshire purred, tilting her head with a playful smirk. “I am completely at your mercy.”

Artemis flinched. That voice—it was too familiar, too sharp-edged with memory.

“You,” she breathed, recognition flashing across her face.

Cheshire chuckled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Surprise.”

There was a moment of silence—then Cheshire’s expression shifted, the playfulness draining into something cooler. More dangerous.

“So, what happens now? You haul me in? Let your shiny new friends ask their questions?” Her smile curved like a blade. “Though if I were you... I’d be more worried about who they start questioning.”

Artemis stiffened. “What are you talking about?”

Cheshire stepped forward just enough to test the line. The arrow in Artemis’s bow trembled, but didn’t lose.

“I wonder,” Cheshire said softly, “if you and your new friend have your secrets locked down tight enough to survive a little... exposure.”

Her eyes gleamed with cruel amusement. “Imagine their faces when they find out who you really are. Or better yet... who she is.”

Artemis didn’t need to ask who she was. She already knew.

Nyx.

There was a long, suffocating pause between them. The only sound was Artemis’s breathing, controlled but shallow. Then, slowly, reluctantly, she lowered her bow.

Cheshire’s smirk widened. “Didn’t think so.”

And then, like her namesake, she was gone—vanishing in a swirl of smoke and shadow, the grin lingering longer than her form.

Inside, the dust was still settling.

Dr. Roquette limped slightly as she helped Aqualad out of the building, her expression dazed but intact. “The virus uploaded. The F.O.G. is neutralised.”

Aqualad glanced up, still steady despite the battle. “Artemis, where is the assassin?”

Artemis hesitated, then muttered, “She, uh, got away.” Her eyes dropped to the pavement, unwilling to meet his.

A black blur zipped in beside her.

“Ohhh,” Kid Flash said with a theatrical sigh, arms crossed. “She got away from you? Wow. Shocking.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Notice we got ours.” He gestured with a thumb toward the dozen unconscious Shadows neatly tied in glowing psychic ropes behind him, courtesy of Miss Martian’s telekinesis. “Teamwork. Look it up.”

As Artemis clenched her jaw, Kid Flash’s eyes caught something glinting on the pavement.

He crouched and picked up Cheshire’s discarded mask. “Cool,” he said with a grin. “Souvenir.”

Artemis didn’t answer. Her gaze remained fixed on the empty space where Cheshire had stood. The weight of her words still pressed heavily on her chest. In the shadows beyond the flickering lights, Nyx emerged silently, watching. Listening. Half her face was still wreathed in the lingering tendrils of night. Artemis was fully aware of the secrets she carried. But as she watched Nyx recall her shadows, silent and unreadable, she couldn’t help but wonder:

What secrets was she hiding?

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Unknown Location

August 8th – 00:17 EDT

The mood was quiet on the ride back.

Superboy had commandeered a corner bench, arms crossed, expression unreadable. M'gann was piloting silently, eyes focused forward. Aqualad tended to a small cut on his arm with the first-aid kit. Kid Flash was pretending to be asleep, snoring just a little too loudly to be real. Robin was flipping through footage on his wrist comp, brow furrowed.

Nyx sat apart, back against the Bio-Ship’s inner hull, knees drawn loosely to her chest. The shadows still clung faintly to her like wisps of smoke that hadn’t quite faded, coiling around the edges of her gloves before retreating under the dim cabin lights.

Artemis moved before she could second-guess herself, crossing the cabin and sinking into the seat opposite her.

For a while, neither of them said anything. The hum of the Bio-Ship filled the silence between them.

Then, Artemis broke it softly, but not hesitantly.

“I don’t care.”

Nyx tilted her head, slow and cautious. “About what?”

“Your secrets.” Artemis met her eyes, steady. “Whatever it is you’re not saying... I get it.”

Nyx didn’t respond right away. Just studied her, unreadable behind the faint shimmer of shadow still flickering across her cheek.

“I know what it’s like to carry something you can’t share,” Artemis continued, her voice quiet. “To wonder if people would still look at you the same way if they knew.”

Nyx blinked. “So you’re saying you trust me?”

Artemis gave a short, humourless laugh. “Yes– No.” She paused briefly, running a hand through her hair. “Not exactly.”

That surprised Nyx. A flicker of something passed across her face—confusion, maybe. Disappointment. Perchance a crack in the usual cool detachment.

“But,” Artemis went on, “I do know what it’s like to stand where you’re standing. And I’m not about to be a hypocrite.”

A silent moment passed.

“So I’m not gonna push. Not yet.”

Nyx studied her again, eyes narrowed slightly—calculating, weighing. “That’s... generous of you.”

Artemis shrugged. “Don’t get used to it.”

That earned a faint smile from Nyx. A rare one. The kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes but almost did.

They sat like that for another few seconds, the air between them filled with quiet understanding—strained but genuine.

Then, Artemis stood. “Just don’t make me regret it.”

She walked back to her seat without waiting for a reply.

Behind her, Nyx stared at the space Artemis had just vacated. Then, slowly, her eyes slipped shut—and for the first time in a long while, the shadows stilled.

Chapter Text

Mount Justice

August 19th – 19:39 EDT

[Training Match: Kaldur'ahm vs Superboy. Begin.]

In the centre of the training room, Superboy and Kaldur were sparring. Their movements were precise but heavy-handed, every punch thrown echoed through the open space, some connecting with sharp grunts, others narrowly dodged. It was less a fight and more a conversation in fists, punctuated by the occasional thud of impact.

Off to the side, Nyx leaned against a pillar beside Artemis and M’gann, arms crossed, shadows curling idly around her boots like lazy cats.

“Kaldur’s, uh… nice, don’t you think?” Artemis said, her voice just loud enough for the girls to hear. “Handsome. Commanding. You should totally ask him out.”

M’gann giggled. “He’s like a big brother to me.”

“You know who would make the cutest couple, though?” she added with a mischievous sparkle in her eye.

Artemis raised her brows. “Don’t say it.”

“Artemis and Wally,” M’gann sing-songed.

Nyx smirked and covered her mouth to hide the laugh that escaped her. Artemis groaned, but a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

“I totally see it,” Nyx teased. “I bet, right now,  they’ll end up together.”

“Please.” Artemis rolled her eyes. “As if.”

“I said it first. M’gann’s my witness. Don’t come crying to me when I’m proven right.”

“Only if you come to the wedding in a dress made of shadows,” M’gann said with a wink.

Nyx let out a rare, genuine laugh, soft and a little surprised at herself.

The moment stretched, easy and light. In just over a week at Mount Justice, Nyx had found a strange rhythm with them. She wasn’t exactly close with everyone yet, but the silence around her didn’t feel so heavy anymore. The only person she still felt bristling around wasn’t present.

Robin.

He wasn’t here often unless there was a mission, and when he was, she could feel the weight of his suspicion like a spotlight on her back. She couldn’t entirely blame him. He was trained by Batman, the same as her. He was used to uncovering secrets. And she… had a lot of them.

“Nyx,” M’gann said gently, tilting her head. “Will you ever take off the glasses around us?”

Nyx hesitated, then shrugged. “Maybe? I don’t know. Standard Bat protocol. Keep the identities locked down tight. I’m guessing even you don’t know who Robin is.”

“Bet Wally does,” Artemis muttered.

“Maybe even Batgirl,” Nyx added, thoughtfully. “But definitely not me. I doubt Robin knows my real name. It’s part of the deal.”

Before M’gann could respond, Superboy threw Kaldur to the mat with a heavy slam.

“Black Canary taught me that,” he said with a rare smirk.

Red Tornado entered the room then, moving with his usual mechanical calm. His presence didn’t usually draw much attention—he was more caretaker than supervisor. Quiet. Watchful. Unless you counted Wally.

“Hey, RT!” Wally zipped into frame. “Got any missions for us?”

“Mission assignments are handled by Batman,” Red Tornado replied.

“Yeah, well, the Bat’s probably in Gotham with the Robin doing their dynamic duo thing.”

Nyx’s eyes flicked to him at that. She didn’t react, but it landed. Dynamic duo. Batman hadn’t called her up for anything lately. Not since she joined the team. Not even a solo mission. As if summoned by the thought, Batman’s hologram flickered into life in the centre of the room. His silhouette is sharp and imposing as ever.

“Nyx. Your presence is required at the Batcave. Immediately.”

She nodded without a word and turned toward the Zeta Tube, her cape of shadow already drawing in around her shoulders.

[Recognised: Nyx, B-08.]

And just like that, she was gone. Artemis watched her disappear in a blur of dark light. Quietly, she wondered what secrets Nyx wasn’t telling them.

But then again… Artemis wasn’t telling them everything, either.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The Batcave

August 19th – 19:45 EDT

[Recognised: Nyx, B-08.]

The Batcave was just as she had left it.

The towering stalactites, the hum of computers, and the ever-present shadows that felt more like home than any bedroom ever had. A week had passed since she'd last stood here, before the team, before Artemis, and before the chaos of Happy Harbour and Dr. Roquette. Back when it had just been her and Bruce, a quiet war fought from the shadows.

Nyx exhaled as her boots echoed faintly against the stone floor. The weight of the cave settled around her shoulders like a familiar cloak. She caught herself drifting, thinking back to when Batman had first recruited her officially six months ago. Life on the Watchtower had been structured, cold, and intense. But joining the team had been… different. Messier. Louder. Realer.

“Nyx,” Batman said, his voice low and even from across the Batcomputer. Then, quieter, “Or would you prefer I use your real name?”

She blinked. “Um… Nyx is fine, Mr. Wayne.”

“Just call me Bruce,” he said without looking up. “I think we’re well past the point of formalities.”

She dropped her gaze. “I know.”

Her fingers tugged lightly at a loose strand of hair. Around the team, she kept her mask tight—cocky, untouchable, shadows made flesh. But here, with him, the pretence cracked. Bruce had seen her at her lowest. He’d picked her off the street and handed her a second life. If there was anyone she could drop the nonchalant act for, it was him.

“How was your excursion with Robin?” she asked.

“Successful,” Bruce said. “The smugglers were intercepted before they could distribute the Blockbuster venom. The Gotham labs are secure.”

He paused. Then he turned to her fully.

“You’ll be returning to Gotham Academy once summer break ends,” Bruce said, his voice even as he stood with his back to her, scanning data on the Batcomputer.

Nyx gave a small nod. She already knew that.

Bruce continued, “Artemis will be starting there this fall. She’s a year ahead of you, but I trust you’ll help her adjust quietly.”

Nyx’s head snapped up. “Artemis? At GA?”

He turned to face her. “She’s been awarded a full scholarship. Funded through Wayne Enterprises’ outreach program.”

A short, dry laugh escaped Nyx’s throat. “She’s going to loathe it.”

Bruce raised a brow, but Nyx pressed on, her voice sharper now.

“Don’t get me wrong, the school looks impressive—glossy brochures, shining plaques, and perfectly trimmed hedges. But underneath? It’s all smoke and mirrors. Generational wealth. Last names that mean something. The kids there were born into dynasties, and they never let you forget it.” She paused. “You know how it is. Your son’s in my year. We hear what they say.”

Bruce’s gaze hardened. “There are plenty of students there who aren’t from that world.”

“Yeah,” Nyx said, quieter now. “And they wear that difference like a target on their backs.”

He stepped closer. “That’s why Artemis will need someone who understands both sides.”

Nyx tilted her head slightly, her gaze unreadable. “And you think that’s me?”

“I know it is,” Bruce said. “You’ve lived your whole life inside their world—ballrooms, boardrooms, legacy and image. But you’ve seen the other side too. You’ve trained in it. Fought in it. You don’t flinch when the mask comes off.”

She didn’t respond right away. She didn’t have to. Everything he said was true.

Nyx had been raised to be perfect—the elegant daughter of a legacy family, polished like a diamond and placed at the centre of Gotham’s most exclusive circles. She didn’t hate that life. She wore it well. The etiquette, the diplomacy, the performance, not that it even was a performance, as it is all she has ever known. But she’d also seen Gotham’s shadows. The ones the galas liked to pretend didn’t exist. And she never forgot them.

Bruce’s voice softened, low and measured. “Just make sure Artemis doesn’t get buried in all of it. The whispers, the hierarchy, the lines drawn in blood and money. And don’t let it swallow you either. You’re not just your last name. You don’t have to be who they think you are.”

For a moment, something flickered behind Nyx’s eyes. But then it was gone.

She nodded once, curtly. “I know who I am, Bruce.”

The silence lingered.

Then she asked, carefully, “Has my father contacted you? About the internship?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “That’s why I called you here.”

Nyx’s stomach coiled, but her face remained composed.

“When the school year begins, you’ll return home. Keep up appearances. Keep him convinced. As far as he knows, you’ve spent the summer preparing for the next phase of your future. Nothing more.”

She nodded, slowly. “Of course.”

“You’re welcome at Mount Justice when he’s away,” he added. “But when he’s home, you maintain the image. Every detail. Every expectation.”

“I’ve been doing that my whole life,” Nyx said simply, a faint, ironic smile playing at her lips. “Don’t worry. I know how to play the part.”

What she didn’t say, and what Bruce didn’t need to hear, was the truth buried beneath her composure. That sometimes, the role didn’t feel like a mask at all. That sometimes, she wasn’t sure there was anything underneath it.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Mount Justice

August 19th – 21:57 EDT

Nyx sat cross-legged on her bed at Mount Justice, the dim light of her room casting soft shadows across the walls. It was quiet, eerily so. The rest of the team was off doing something together, somewhere, leaving her alone with the silence and her thoughts.

The room felt more like hers than it had a week ago. She’d added subtle touches: a few sleek decor pieces, a lavender candle she’d never light, and a neat string of photos pinned just above her desk. Most were from their impromptu girls' trip to Happy Harbour Mall, Artemis mid-eye-roll, M’gann beaming like a cartoon character, and Nyx herself half-laughing, sunglasses perched over her ever-present glasses. She smiled at the memory, at how thrilled M’gann had been to experience what she called “Earth girlhood.”

Nyx leaned in, studying the photo more closely. The glasses were a constant. Always part of the act. But who was she under them? Was she more than the daughter of Gotham’s high society, more than a carefully constructed identity?

A knock broke her thoughts.

“Yes?” she called.

“We need to talk.” Robin’s voice. Calm, clipped.

Nyx opened the door and breezed past him, not waiting for whatever confrontation he had planned. She led the way through the quiet halls, stepping out onto the cliffside platform just outside Mount Justice.

The stars were sharp tonight, freckling the sky in crystal clarity. Nyx looked up, drawn to them, their silent steadiness. A breeze tugged at her skin, and she shivered. Of course, she’d forgotten a jacket. Tank top and shorts in coastal night air, brilliant. Without a word, Robin slipped off his jacket and handed it to her. She hesitated, then took it. It was warm, smelled faintly of sandalwood and citrus—subtle, expensive, familiar.

“There’s no need to pretend you like me,” she said, slipping it on. “You’ve made your feelings pretty clear.”

Robin said nothing at first. Just stared at her, unreadable behind his mask of composure.

“I mean it,” Nyx continued. “Since day one, you’ve been watching me like I’m a loaded weapon.”

“I’m not pretending,” he said carefully.

“You don’t trust me.”

“No, I don’t,” he admitted. “Not entirely.”

Nyx tilted her head. “And why’s that? Because Batman didn’t brief you on me? Because I’m the one person in the world’s most paranoid man's life who somehow flew under your radar?”

“I’ve trained with Batman since I was nine,” Robin said, voice edged. “And then suddenly you show up—no warning, no files, not even a whisper in the system. I checked, Nyx. You don’t exist.”

“Background checking me?” she raised a brow. “Wow. And they say romance is dead.”

Robin’s jaw tightened. “Look. I don’t know who you are or why Batman kept you off the books, but you’re clearly good. You saved Artemis. You saved Wally. You’ve pulled your weight.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is, I don’t know what game you’re playing.”

Nyx’s voice hardened. “Not everything is a game. I’m not here to compete with you, Robin. I don’t care about your title or your track record with Batman. But if you think you’re entitled to know everything just because you were here first, you’re not.”

There was a pause. Something in Robin’s face shifted, almost imperceptibly.

“I’m not trying to gatekeep the team,” he said quietly. “But I’ve seen what secrets do. I’ve seen what lies cost. So yeah… I’m cautious. Maybe too cautious.”

Nyx looked away. The stars were easier to face than the honesty in his voice.

“I’ve spent my whole life lying,” she said finally.“Playing a part. Sometimes… I don’t even remember where the part ends and I begin.”

They stood in silence, the air thick between them, charged with something unspoken.

“NYX!” Wally’s voice rang out from the corridor behind them. “You have got to see what I found—souvenir of the century!”

Robin exhaled through his nose.

Nyx shook her head with a dry smile. “Saved by the speedster.”

She turned to go, tugging Robin’s jacket tighter around her.

“Thanks for the jacket,” she said over her shoulder. “And the honesty.”

Robin watched her go, the breeze rustling through his hair, and for once, he didn’t follow with a snarky comment.

He just watched.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

“—And then I became Dr. Fate and kicked Klarion’s little witchy ass!”

Wally’s voice rang through the corridor like a triumphant trumpet as he barreled into the room, a golden artefact held high in his hand like a trophy. It looked vaguely magical and very probably cursed. Nyx blinked as he stopped in front of her, panting from excitement.

“I literally don’t even know how to explain the chaos dimension we ended up in, but Fate handled it. And by Fate, I obviously mean me.” He grinned, wiggling his eyebrows and waving the helmet. “What do you think? Mount Justice decor?”

“I think it’s a health hazard,” Nyx replied, but her tone was soft, amused even. “How’d you even get that?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to,” Wally winked. “But hey, I needed to show you. You weren’t in your room. Figured maybe you’d run off to talk to your shadows or whatever.”

Robin shifted slightly beside Superboy, arms crossed tightly. His eyes flicked over to Nyx and lingered on the jacket she was still wearing, his jacket. He said nothing, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t go unnoticed by Kaldur, who gave him a quiet, sidelong look.

“I take it something happened?” Artemis leaned in toward Nyx, her voice low and curious as she subtly eyed the jacket, too.

Nyx shrugged, casual, even though she could still feel Robin’s gaze pressing on her back like a weight. “Yeah. Kind of. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

She turned to the others. “Good night, everyone.”

She didn’t look back. Didn’t acknowledge Robin. Instead, she let the shadows consume her like mist on a moonless night, vanishing from sight. 

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Back in her room, the lights stayed off. She preferred it that way, soft darkness, illuminated only by the faint glow of the artificial moon through her window. With a wave of her hand, the shadows turned her music on: a playlist of '80s hits that hummed quietly through the room like a forgotten dream. She crossed to her bed and sank onto it slowly, tugging the jacket closer around her shoulders. It still smelled like him—like sandalwood, citrus, and just a hint of whatever Gotham grime Robin had collected. She stared at her ceiling, jaw clenched, replaying the conversation again.

"I don’t know what game you’re playing."

The words echoed. It wasn’t that he’d been wrong. She was a ghost, carefully crafted. Raised not just to be perfect but to be invisible in the ways that mattered. Polished and poised in daylight. Cold and calculating in the dark. She’d always thought she was fine with that. But lately… something had started to splinter. A question she couldn’t answer. Who was she, if not what her father expected? If not, the mask Batman had trained her to wear?

The door creaked open slightly, just enough to let in a sliver of hallway light.

“...Nyx?” Artemis’s voice was soft.

Nyx didn’t move. “Lights are off for a reason.”

“I know.” Artemis stepped inside anyway. “Just thought I’d check. You dipped fast.”

“I wasn’t in the mood for Wally’s Klarion recap part four.” She gestured vaguely. “Also, still wearing Robin’s jacket. Not looking to field questions.”

Artemis sat at the edge of her bed, not asking for permission. “So… you two talked.”

“You could call it that.”

“And?”

“And it was like fencing with barbed wire. Bloody, confusing, and not exactly productive.”

Artemis huffed. “He’s got issues with people he can’t read. You’re like this shadowy mirror Batman shoved into his perfect little world.”

Nyx snorted. “Flattering.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.” But Artemis smiled anyway. “Still. He’ll get over it.”

Nyx didn’t answer right away. She watched as her reflection ghosted across the dark window—glasses hiding half her face, shadows curling faintly at her fingertips. Her world was masks. The expectations. Secrets. And she was so good at them. But part of her wanted to take the jacket off. Part of her wanted someone to see her, even just for a second, without the act.

“Artemis?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever feel like you’ve played your role so well that you don’t remember who you actually are?”

Artemis was quiet for a long beat. Then she said, “Every day.”

Nyx finally looked at her, and Artemis didn’t flinch. Didn’t pry.

Just offered a silent kind of understanding that Nyx wasn’t used to.

“I’ll tell you everything tomorrow,” Nyx said softly. “About what happened with Robin.” ‘About everything, ’ she wished to say.

Artemis nodded. “Good. Because if you don’t, I’m breaking in here with coffee and my full emotional interrogation voice.”

Nyx smiled. “Sounds terrifying.”

“Oh, it is.”

Artemis left shortly after that, shutting the door with a soft click. Nyx was alone again, but the room didn’t feel quite as empty this time. The music kept playing.

And for once, she didn’t feel like turning it off.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Bialya

September 4th – 00:16 EEST

The Team—Aqualad, Kid Flash, Miss Martian, Superboy, Artemis, Robin, and Nyx—had been deployed under strict orders. Their mission: covertly infiltrate Bialya and investigate troubling reports of illegal human experimentation on children, intelligence suggesting a direct connection to Queen Bee and the elusive and unknown organisation. It was delicate, volatile work. The League had made it clear—stealth was paramount. No footprints, no casualties, and above all, no political fallout.

For a while, it seemed smooth. They crossed into Bialyan airspace under the cover of night, their bioships cloaked and silent against the sprawling dunes below. The desert stretched endlessly beneath them, glowing faintly under the cold eye of the moon.

Then everything went wrong.

Without warning, a pulse of invisible energy ripped through the atmosphere—a neuro-disruptor, designed with brutal precision. There was no time to react. Pain bloomed behind their eyes, electric and suffocating. Minds fractured mid-thought. Memories blurred into static. Coordination shattered.

The Team plummeted from the skies, scattered like broken pieces of a puzzle across the endless, unforgiving desert. Their comms fell silent. Their mission was forgotten. Their names, even their own identities, slipped from grasp like water through trembling hands.

Night swallowed them whole.

And Bialya, silent and waiting, closed in around them.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Nyx stumbled into the ruins of a forgotten village, the structures half-swallowed by the shifting desert sands. Crumbling stone walls cast jagged shadows across the ground, the twilight air heavy with the scent of dust and something older—something abandoned. Her heart pounded in her chest, a frantic drum she couldn't explain. Shadows flickered at her fingertips, coiling and uncoiling like a second heartbeat. She didn’t know her name. Didn’t know why she could move like a whisper through the wreckage. But she knew how to survive. Instinct thrummed through her bones.

A low, pained groan pulled her attention toward the remnants of what might once have been a market square.

There—Artemis.

Blonde hair tangled, one arm cradling her ribs, blinking dazedly as she staggered to her feet. Around her, a patrol was closing in, rifles raised, voices barking in a language Nyx couldn't quite place but understood all the same: a threat.

Nyx didn’t hesitate. Darkness peeled away from the walls at her command. She struck from the shadows with ruthless precision—silent, swift, surgical. Within seconds, the patrol was down, unconscious in the dust.

Nyx jogged over, breath tight in her chest. “You alright?”

Artemis shook her head as if trying to clear it, green eyes unfocused. “I… think so. You know me?”

Nyx hesitated.

Everything in her twisted with the knowledge that she didn’t—but something deeper trusted this girl. Trusted her to stand beside her, even in the dark.

“No,” Nyx said simply. “But I trust you.”

It was enough.

Without speaking, they fell into step together, slipping through the ruins and into the vast, merciless desert. Trust—unearned, instinctual—became their tether in a world that no longer made sense.

Artemis fought like a wildfire, reckless and stubborn. Nyx moved like a shadow, precise and cold. Together, they wove through the night, evading searchlights, leaving nothing behind but footprints the wind quickly swallowed.

Elsewhere, scattered across the desert, others were beginning to wake.

Robin jerked awake beneath the gutted remains of a bioship wing, disoriented but already scanning for threats. He found Kid Flash half-buried in sand and Superboy charging blindly into the distance, fists raised, rage a language even memory loss couldn’t steal.

Miss Martian wandered the dunes alone, fear coiling in her gut. She nearly collapsed with relief when she found Aqualad, steady even through the haze clouding his mind. One by one, she began to piece their minds back together, her psychic touch delicate but firm. The process was brutal—like tearing stitches from an unhealed wound—but it worked.

When Nyx’s memories returned, it was less like waking up and more like being slammed by a tidal wave.

She gasped, staggering against a half-buried wall, hands trembling.

“Oh. Oh—” she breathed, as flashes of mission briefings, teammates' faces, the stakes, the danger all flooded back. “We’re on a mission. Queen Bee. The children. The organisation—”

Artemis caught her arm to steady her. Her grin was faint but real. “Looks like your brain’s back online.”

Nyx let out a ragged laugh, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Unfortunately.”

She pushed herself upright, shadowmancy crackling faintly at her fingertips again. Her eyes sharpened, no longer full of confusion, but resolve.

“Let’s finish this.”

And together, they stepped back into the fight.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Once reunited, the team moved with grim determination toward Queen Bee’s hidden facility—a monolith of metal and stone half-buried beneath the desert dunes. The entrance was heavily guarded, but stealth was their advantage. Silent signals passed between them; no words needed.

Robin and Nyx split off from the main group, slipping into the ventilation system to scout ahead. The metal grates creaked softly under their weight, the narrow shafts lit only by slivers of moonlight cutting through gaps in the structure. Nyx wove a veil of shifting darkness around them both, bending light away from their movements until they were little more than deeper shadows in the gloom.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Robin whispered with a crooked smile, his voice barely more than a breath.

Nyx’s mouth twitched into a ghost of a smile. “I talk when it matters,” she said, gliding forward like smoke, the tendrils of her shadowmancy caressing the narrow walls.

Robin followed without hesitation, trusting her to lead. They slipped past a patrol without so much as a flicker of suspicion.

Inside, the facility was worse than they feared.

Rows upon rows of containment pods lined the cavernous main hall, each one imprisoning a child—some barely older than toddlers, others teenagers—suspended in eerie stasis. Tubes snaked from their bodies, feeding into glowing machines that hummed with an unnatural energy. The air reeked of antiseptic and something fouler beneath it: cruelty, desperation.

Kid Flash cursed under his breath. Superboy’s hands balled into fists so tight his knuckles cracked audibly.

“We need to move. Now,” Kaldur said, grim and low.

As alarms began to blare, guards flooded into the chamber. Superboy surged forward, a living battering ram, while Miss Martian lifted the containment pods with her telekinesis, floating them out of harm’s way. Artemis loosed arrow after arrow, each shot surgical.

Nyx took position between the children and the guards, weaving an impenetrable curtain of shadow between them. Bullets and energy blasts hissed harmlessly into the darkness, disappearing as if swallowed by a living thing. She was a silent shield, a dark wall that refused to break.

Then, Psimon appeared.

The air thickened with psychic pressure the moment he stepped into the room, his smile oily and sharp. He didn’t speak—he didn't have to. His mind lashed out like a whip, striking at the team with jagged tendrils of mental assault.

Nyx staggered, one knee hitting the floor, her vision swimming with half-remembered horrors. Robin clutched his head, gritting his teeth against the invasive force clawing into his mind.

But Miss Martian stood firm, her form blazing with psychic energy.

“You don’t get to take us again,” Miss M said, her voice resonating not just in the air, but through the very fabric of the room.

She launched herself at Psimon, their minds colliding in a violent clash of willpower. The psychic shockwave rattled the walls and shattered nearby lights, plunging the room into a strobe of sparks and shadow.

When the light cleared, Psimon lay crumpled on the ground, unconscious.

Queen Bee’s forces fell into chaos without their psychic backbone. Aqualad barked orders, rallying the team. Within minutes, the facility was in ruins, the children freed, the experiment brought to a violent, rightful end.

The mission was complete.

But the echoes of it—the weight of what they’d seen and fought through—clung to them, long after they stepped back into the desert night.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

As the Zeta-tube flared to life and the team prepared to extract, Wally nudged Nyx’s arm.

“You okay? You seemed… different out there.”

Nyx glanced back at the shadow-covered facility, then at the kids.

“Some things hit close to home,” she said. “Doesn’t mean we let them break us.”

Robin eyed her from across the room—still cautious, still uncertain—but this time, he said nothing.

Batman’s debrief was brief: “Well done. You kept the mission clean. Data recovery is ongoing.”

Back at Mount Justice, no one spoke much that night. But Nyx sat in her room a little longer than usual, staring at her reflection in the darkened window.

Not just a symbol. Not just a shadow.

A protector. Maybe even a teammate.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The next day, the dining table in Mount Justice wasn’t exactly elegant; it was sleek and utilitarian, military-style, with metal benches and overhead lights that buzzed faintly—but tonight, it felt warmer than usual. Plates clattered, voices overlapped, and the scent of actual food, not just Wally’s leftover protein bars, lingered in the air.

They had earned this.

M'gann floated between stations, dishing up veggie curry and rice with practised care. “I figured something comforting would be good after... You know, the whole memory wipe thing.”

“You’re a queen, M’gann,” Wally said with his mouth already half full. “You literally saved my brain.”

Superboy grunted approvingly. “Smells better than Bialyan desert sand.”

Artemis slid into the seat beside Nyx, her tray mostly untouched.

Nyx hesitated before sitting. She wore a black, long-sleeved tight tight-fitted turtleneck and her usual sunglasses. There was still dried sand in her boots, a reminder of how far they'd trekked. Her shoulders were stiff, but she allowed herself to sit with them. Among them.

Robin sat across from her, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t watching her exactly—but he wasn’t not watching her, either.

“So,” Artemis said casually, spearing a piece of tofu, “anyone else still freaked out we basically woke up in a dystopian amnesia simulator?”

“Psimon’s powers are no joke,” Robin replied. “He could’ve erased everything.”

“He didn’t,” Nyx said, her voice even. “We were still... ourselves. Even without memories.”

Robin’s gaze flicked up at that. A faint pause. She’d said we.

M’gann sat down next to Superboy, her smile gentler now. “I think it’s kind of amazing. How we found each other again, even without knowing.”

“Aw,” Wally said, nudging her playfully. “Don’t get mushy on me now, Martian.”

“You’re the one who cried when I mindlinked you,” she teased.

“I did not cry! I was disoriented.”

“You cried a little,” Superboy added dryly.

Everyone laughed, even Artemis, though she elbowed Wally in solidarity.

Across the table, Nyx poked at her food, silent for a moment.

“You alright?” Artemis asked quietly, nudging her knee under the table.

Nyx nodded. “Just tired. It was a long day.”

“You were great out there,” M’gann offered, genuinely. “You kept calm even when we didn’t know who we were. You protected Artemis. That means something.”

Nyx gave a half-smile. “It’s easier to trust someone who’s honest. Even when they’re snarky.”

“Hey,” Artemis said, smirking. “I’m not that snarky.”

“You’re lucky that’s endearing,” Nyx replied.

Robin shifted slightly, folding his arms.

“You moved like someone who had trained before Batman,” he said suddenly. The table went quiet for half a beat.

Nyx’s expression didn’t change. “Maybe I was trained before him. Maybe I wasn’t.”

“Still not sharing?” Robin asked, tone neutral—but there was something more beneath it. Curiosity. Maybe even… respect?

“I don’t owe you anything,” she said. Not cold, just… firm. Measured. “But that doesn’t mean I’m your enemy.”

Robin nodded once. Slowly. “Fair enough.”

“Can we not turn dinner into an interrogation?” Artemis muttered. “Some of us are trying to digest.”

“Thank you,” Nyx said, glancing at her. Just a flicker of warmth.

From the kitchen, Red Tornado observed silently as they settled into a rhythm, not just eating, but joking, decompressing, teasing each other like real teammates. Like friends.

“Okay,” Wally said, stretching back. “So… who wants to make a bet we end up mind-wiped again in the next month?”

“Not funny,” M’gann said.

“A little funny,” Artemis added.

Nyx leaned back slightly, eyes drifting up to the ceiling.

For the first time in a while, she didn’t feel like she had to play a part. Not here. Not tonight. Just… listen. Just be.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Mount Justice

September 7th – 06:41 EDT

“Ready for school?” M’gann’s voice rang out cheerily from the Zeta-tube tunnel, her footsteps light as she practically bounced into the room.

Superboy turned at the sound, unable to help the small, amused smile tugging at his mouth. She was already dressed in a pink cardigan, jeans, and a backpack slung over one shoulder like she’d been practising for this day her whole life.

“I packed our lunches!” she announced proudly, holding up two matching containers. “PB&J—unless you're allergic. I still don't totally get how human food works.”

Behind her, the rest of the support squad trailed in—Red Tornado, calm and observant; Martian Manhunter, hands clasped behind his back; and Kaldur, flanked by Nyx, who was adjusting her black leather satchel and very pointedly not looking excited.

“The first day of the scholastic season carries great cultural resonance,” Martian Manhunter intoned thoughtfully, looking between the young heroes like a proud uncle preparing them for battle.

Nyx gave a soft laugh. “M’gann, you’re still green.”

“Oh! Right, duh.” M’gann grinned and, with a shimmer of light, shape-shifted into her new identity—fair-skinned, red-haired, freckles dotted across her nose. “ Hello, Megan! Meet Megan Morse!” she announced, striking a sitcom-style pose.

Nyx smiled wider, genuinely amused, and turned to Superboy. “What about you? Got a cover name ready, mystery boy?”

He blinked. “Uh…”

“You could be a John,” Martian Manhunter offered helpfully. “Like Red Tornado and I. It is a strong, flexible name.”

“Well…” M’gann tapped her chin, eyes lighting up. “My favourite name has always been Connor. I think it suits him, don’t you?"

Nyx raised a brow, lips twitching. “Connor Kent. Yeah, that tracks. Subtle.” She nudged him teasingly. “Might as well tattoo a cape on your forehead while you’re at it.”

Superboy looked at her, confused. “What’s wrong with that?”

Kaldur shot Nyx a sharp look, clearly warning her to dial it back. She rolled her eyes and gave a half-apologetic shrug.

“Oh! Like Kent Nelson,” M’gann chimed in helpfully, eyes wide. “The late Dr. Fate!”

The mood faltered for a moment. A brief, heavy silence settled over the group.

“Yeah…” Nyx said softly. “Just like him.”

Kaldur cleared his throat, voice quiet but steady. “Yes. Exactly.”

M’gann beamed and slipped her arm through Superboy’s. “Come on, Connor. We’re gonna be late for homeroom!”

As they walked toward the Zeta-tube, Connor glanced back at the others. “This is... normal, right?”

Nyx snorted softly. “As normal as anything else we do.”

And with that, Megan Morse and Connor Kent stepped into the light, off to play the part of ordinary teenagers, hiding extraordinary truths just beneath the surface.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Mount Justice

September 7th – 15:41 EDT

The soft hum of an 80s playlist drifted lazily through Nyx’s room, underscored by the occasional whoosh of Mount Justice’s automated ventilation. M’gann was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her newly chosen backpack resting beside her, still decorated with a few too-shiny “Hello Kitty” pins she’d insisted were trendy. Nyx sprawled on her bed in jeans and a tube top, one knee propped up, absently twirling a strand of hair between her fingers.

Artemis leaned against the wall near the door, arms crossed but relaxed, though the way she was chewing the inside of her cheek said otherwise.

“I seriously didn’t think school could be so intense,” M’gann declared, eyes wide. “I mean—I thought I was ready! I studied every high school movie I could find: Mean Girls, High School Musical, The Breakfast Club, all the essentials—but nobody told me about the actual chaos of the cafeteria system.”

Nyx raised an eyebrow. “You mean the seating hierarchy?”

“Yes!” M’gann said, exasperated but giggling. “I tried to sit with this group of girls who looked super friendly—they had matching hair ribbons and everything—but then they gave me this look. You know the one.”

“Oh, I know the one,” Nyx said, voice dry. “The ‘who do you think you are’ look?”

“Exactly that!” M’gann flopped dramatically onto the rug.

“I, for one, am not looking forward to Gotham Academy,” she announced, scrolling furiously. “I mean—have you seen their uniforms? Knee-high socks, red ties, short skirts, those stiff black blazers? What is this, a prep school or a villain origin story?”

M’gann giggled from where she sat curled up with a snack she stole from Nyx’s not-so-secret stash. “But they look cute!”

“They look like conformity wrapped in plaid,” Artemis muttered. “And don’t even get me started on the students. Rich, snobby, entitled. I can already feel the judgment radiating off their perfect little yearbooks.”

She tapped her screen again and spun the tablet toward Nyx and M’Gann, showing off a glossy poster of Gotham Academy’s current fencing representative. It featured a girl around their age in a pristine uniform, flawless features, and unmistakably expensive designer accessories.

“Look at her,” Artemis said with a dramatic eye roll. “This girl is on half the school’s promotional material. So is Bruce Wayne’s adopted son. They’re basically the faces of the academy. Meanwhile, I’m supposed to blend in and survive two whole years pretending I care about yacht parties and heritage foundations?”

Nyx leaned over to get a better look at the screen and tried very hard not to react.

“Well,” she said, biting the inside of her cheek, “I’m sure they’re not all that bad.”

“Nyx. Come on.” Artemis shoved the tablet toward her face. “Look at her! She’s the literal poster child of Gotham City royalty. Tell me that’s not the face of someone who’s never even seen the inside of a public bus.”

Nyx stared at the photo and felt a laugh bubbling up before she could stop it.

“What?” Artemis narrowed her eyes. “What’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry,” Nyx said through a smothered giggle, “I was just picturing you on one of these posters in that uniform. With, like, hair blown out by a wind machine and everything.”

Artemis recoiled. “Ugh, rude. Not funny.”

M’gann tried to stifle her own laughter. “I dunno, you’d totally rock it.”

Artemis shot them both a playful glare. “Yeah, okay, laugh it up. Meanwhile, I’ll be dodging trust fund babies and legacy admissions with a target on my back.”

“Hey, who knows?” Nyx said, smiling. “Maybe you’ll end up becoming the new face of GA.”

“If that happens, someone please knock me unconscious.”

M’gann tilted her head curiously. “Where do you go to school, Nyx? Are you at one of those hidden Bat-only schools or something?”

“Classified,” Nyx replied smoothly. “Bat protocol. Can’t have anyone tracing my steps, you know the drill.”

“Ooh, maybe you go to school with Robin,” M’gann teased with a mischievous smile.

Nyx let out a loud, theatrical groan. “Ugh. As if. I’d recognise that bratty, know-it-all attitude in two seconds flat.”

Artemis raised a brow. “Wait, aren’t you younger than him?”

“Only by, like, a year!” Nyx shot back, clearly offended. “Age doesn’t correlate with maturity, by the way. And I’m also taller than him, if that even counts towards anything.”

M’gann laughed, eyes dancing between the two girls. “You two bicker so much, I’m surprised you haven’t been mistaken for siblings.”

Artemis’s expression flatlined. Siblings? That… wasn’t the word she would’ve chosen. Her gaze flicked instinctively to the armchair across the room, where Robin’s jacket was draped casually over the back. Nyx had worn it the night she and Robin had that talk, quietly, without explanation, and hadn’t returned it since. It had just… stayed. Like a silent claim, neither of them acknowledged. Artemis’s brow ticked up. Subtle, maybe, but not nothing.

“Don’t put that evil on me,” Nyx said with a smirk.

Artemis shook her head, still holding the tablet. “I’m telling you, if I see this girl on a hallway poster, I might just turn around and walk straight back out the door.”

Nyx leaned back with a coy smile, her eyes flickering toward the image one last time.

“Yeah,” she said under her breath, “good luck with that.”

Chapter Text

Gotham Academy

September 22nd – 06:52 EDT

Gotham Academy pulsed with the vibrant energy of a new school year. The grand, ivy-covered campus buzzed with students spilling into courtyards, reuniting after long, luxurious summers. Laughter echoed between the stone buildings as designer blazers fluttered in the late summer breeze. Conversations drifted like perfume—chatter about month-long getaways to Greek islands, charity galas aboard private yachts, and the newest tech gadgets their parents had imported from Japan. The air smelled like polished wood, gardenias, and money.

Then, a sleek black LexCorp car pulled up to the wrought-iron gates, its polished chrome catching the sunlight just right. The moment it appeared, whispers stirred like a ripple across the crowd.

“Isn’t that Arabella’s car?” A girl near the courtyard fountain whispered, tilting her oversized sunglasses down.

“Already? I thought she wasn't arriving until second period.”

“No, look! She’s getting out now!”

The chauffeur stepped around just as the uniformed footman opened the car door with a practised flourish. And there she was—Arabella Luthor. She stepped out with effortless grace, her posture impeccable, her expression unreadable yet magnetic. She wore the Gotham Academy uniform in her own signature way: the standard-issue red tie had been replaced with a crimson satin ribbon, tied neatly in a bow, and her tailored blazer clung elegantly to her figure. Her pleated skirt was fashionably shortened, just enough to bend the rules without breaking them—classic Arabella. Her shoes were deep burgundy Louboutins, heels, of course, and not the kind you wore to walk in, but the kind you wore to be seen in.

Her wavy, dark curls spilt over her shoulders, down to her waist. She wore no makeup, and yet her skin, warm bronze and unblemished, glowed under the sun. She radiated poise in every step, a living embodiment of the Gotham elite. 

Her butler, Winston, handed her a designer satchel. “Miss Arabella, we will return promptly at 3:10 p.m. Your father is expecting you for lunch before your fencing lesson. He has missed you terribly.”

Arabella gave a serene, practised smile. “I’m sure he has.” She took the bag with a graceful nod. “Thank you, Winston. Give my regards to the driver. Good day.”

With that, she turned and strode toward the school gates, her heels clicking crisply against the stone path. She didn’t acknowledge the whispers or the students who parted for her without even realising it. Her gaze was focused; she had one goal in mind: finding Anne-Marie and Charlotte.

As she moved through the courtyard, she passed a group of new scholarship students. They clutched orientation pamphlets and wore the wrong shoes with trembling posture, eyes darting nervously. Some looked at her in awe, others with scepticism. Arabella didn’t slow. She spotted Charlotte’s unmistakable copper hair near the courtyard fountain and allowed the faintest smile to creep onto her face.

“Arabella!” Charlotte called, breaking into a delighted grin before rushing forward and pulling her into a warm hug.

“Charlotte,” Arabella said, laughing as they embraced. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“You wouldn’t have missed me if you’d just come to my family’s island this summer instead of slaving away for Dick’s dad,” Charlotte huffed dramatically, linking her arm with Arabella’s.

“I know, I know. Believe me, the Wayne internship was not my idea of a summer getaway. And you know how my father gets when it comes to anything Wayne-related.”

“Possessive?” Charlotte offered.

“Controlling,” Arabella corrected with a small smirk. “He took it personally that I chose Wayne Enterprises over LexCorp for the internship. It was... tense.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “God. Dads, right?”

“Tragic,” Arabella sighed dramatically. “Where’s Anne-Marie?”

“Off stalking Dick Grayson,” Charlotte said, exasperated. “I swear, she’s convinced that if she stands next to him long enough, people will think she’s dating him.”

“Poor thing,” Arabella chuckled. “Classic Dick, forever a true ladies’ man.”

“I’m late for turning in my summer essay, some of us actually do our work during summer break instead of months before,” Charlotte teased, already backing away. “See you later, Bells!”

Arabella gave a wave and turned, now heading toward her homeroom—until something caught her attention. Or rather, someone.

Blonde hair. Knee-high socks. A red tie. Short skirt. Stiff black blazer.

She moved silently, heels surprisingly quiet on the polished stone walkway, and came to a stop beside the girl standing in front of a familiar poster.

“Honestly, this is the tenth time I’ve seen this Gotham princess poster girl,” the blonde muttered. “If she’s anything like the others, snobby, stuck-up, entitled, I’m screwed.”

Arabella tilted her head at her face on the wall, feigning curiosity. “I know, right?”

The girl turned sharply, clearly ready to rant more—and then froze. Her eyes widened.

“You’re…”

Arabella offered a warm, amused smile and extended her hand. “The snobby Gotham princess poster girl. Arabella Luthor. And you are?”

The blonde hesitated before accepting the handshake. “I’m Crock—I mean, Artemis. Artemis Crock.” She winced. “Sorry. New school nerves. And I may have… judged you based on a few stories from my student liaison.”

“Let me guess, Bette?” Arabella laughed, “And that you assumed I was an evil rich witch with a tiara collection and a superiority complex?”

“Basically.”

“You’re not the first,” Arabella said lightly. “You won’t be the last. Don’t worry about it. How are you settling in?”

Artemis exhaled, some of the tension in her shoulders easing. “Trying to figure out how not to drown. The school’s basically a castle.”

Arabella grinned. “Stick with me. I’ll show you where the secret coffee stash is.”

Artemis blinked. “Secret coffee stash? You’re joking.”

Arabella leaned in conspiratorially. “This place runs on caffeine, whispered insults, and passive-aggressive group projects. You’ll thank me later.”

She turned on her heel and gestured for Artemis to follow. A little unsure, Artemis fell in step beside her.

“So,” Arabella said, weaving gracefully through the courtyard with the confidence of someone who could navigate the school blindfolded, “Bette told you I was evil, huh?”

“She didn’t say evil, ” Artemis said defensively, tugging at her borrowed uniform’s too-tight collar. “Just… intense. Intimidating. Probably plotting world domination.”

“Aw, she remembered,” Arabella said with mock pride.

They cut through a narrow hallway connecting the main building to the east wing. The chatter of other students softened behind them as the hallway emptied.

“I’ll admit, this school wasn’t exactly my first choice,” Artemis said after a beat. “I didn’t grow up with… all this.” She gestured vaguely to the gleaming floors, the chandelier hanging ridiculously over a side staircase, and a framed oil painting of a previous headmaster who looked like he disapproved of breathing.

Arabella glanced over, her voice softening. “It’s not most people’s first choice. Just their parents’.”

They turned a corner and entered a quiet common area behind the old library—bright with morning sun, tucked with velvet armchairs, and most importantly, free of faculty supervision.

Arabella made a beeline for the corner cabinet. “Voila.” She opened it with a flourish. Inside sat a hidden Nespresso machine, an assortment of fancy pods, mugs with monograms, and a jar labelled “emotional emergencies only” filled with expensive chocolate truffles.

“You’re kidding,” Artemis said, wide-eyed. “This is here? Just… here? ”

“Tradition,” Arabella said, selecting a pod. “Legend has it that this was started by some sleep-deprived seniors back in the ‘80s who couldn’t survive pre-calc without a caffeine IV. No teacher’s ever shut it down. It’s become... unofficially sacred.”

Artemis laughed despite herself, already relaxing.

As the coffee brewed, a high-pitched squeal echoed down the hall.

“Arabellaaaa!”

Arabella sighed with a smile just as a blur of black and pink barreled around the corner. Anne-Marie Fairchild, perfect ringlet curls, designer heels, and a phone clutched like a lifeline, hurried towards them.

“You will not believe who I just saw.”

“I can guess,” Arabella said, handing Artemis a mug.

Anne-Marie’s eyes landed on Artemis and immediately flicked to Arabella, then back again. “Who’s this?”

“A new friend,” Arabella said, sipping her espresso. “Anne-Marie, this is Artemis Crock. Artemis, this is Anne-Marie, chaos incarnate.”

“Nice to meet you,” Artemis said cautiously.

Anne-Marie didn’t answer—her jaw had gone slack. “You guys. He’s finally here. Dick Grayson is on campus. Right now. Like he’s in the hallway.”

Arabella exchanged a look with Artemis and muttered under her breath, “Brace yourself.”

Sure enough, a moment later, Dick Grayson strolled into view, all casual confidence and effortless charm. His blazer hung half-on, his tie loose and slightly crooked like he’d only bothered for appearances' sake, and a backpack was slung over one shoulder. He greeted a few students with nods and easy smiles as he passed, never boastful, just friendly. He was the kind of guy who remembered names and helped carry someone’s books without being asked. The adopted son of Bruce Wayne, sole heir to Wayne Enterprises, but you’d never catch him lording that over anyone.

Arabella leaned against the student lounge counter with a knowing smile. “Speak of the devil.”

Dick spotted the group and made a beeline for them, his grin widening when he saw her. “Arabella,” he greeted. “Did Lex let you off early so you could terrorise freshmen, or did you escape through a bathroom window again?”

She rolled her eyes, laughing. “Dick, we are the freshmen.”

“Gotham Prep never stopped you before,” he quipped, nudging her playfully with his elbow. Artemis made a mental note that GA’s Middle School was colloquially referred to as Gotham Prep.

Beside Arabella, Artemis narrowed her eyes slightly, her arms crossed. “Wait a minute,” she said, staring at him. “You’re the guy who randomly took a selfie with me earlier in the courtyard!”

Dick turned to her, and his expression lit up with recognition. “Oh yeah! That was you. Caught at peak confusion, 7:06 AM, harsh sunlight, deer-in-headlights vibe—you looked iconic.”

Artemis gave him a look. “You took a picture of me looking lost ?”

“I took a picture of us,” he corrected, holding up his phone and showing her the selfie in question. Sure enough, Dick was grinning wide while Artemis looked halfway between dazed and mildly alarmed. “We can laugh about this someday.”

Anne-Marie, who had been sipping her iced coffee, burst out laughing. “Oh my God, Dick, you didn’t.”

“I did,” he said proudly, tucking the phone away like it was a souvenir. “You’ll thank me at your graduation next year.” He nodded towards Artemis.

She shook her head, torn between mild outrage and reluctant amusement. “You’re a menace.”

Dick just grinned. “Takes one to know one.”

Arabella sipped her drink, watching the exchange with a faint smirk. “You two are either going to be best friends or mortal enemies. No in-between.”

“I vote enemies,” Artemis muttered.

“See?” Dick said cheerfully. “We’re already bonding.”

Anne-Marie leaned closer to Arabella and whispered behind her coffee cup, “I had forgotten that he’s even more annoyingly cute in person.”

Arabella smiled into her drink. “And somehow, it only makes him more likeable.”

Dick checked the time on his phone and sighed. “Alright, I’ve got to go help Babs wrestle with the ancient AV cart. Wish me luck.”

“Tell her I say hi,” Arabella said.

“I will. And Artemis?” He offered a casual salute. “Welcome to Gotham Academy.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Thanks... I guess.”

He grinned one last time, then turned and disappeared into the flow of students, his blazer flapping slightly behind him.

Anne-Marie let out a dramatic sigh. “Why does he have to be both adorable and impossible?”

Arabella chuckled. “Because the universe enjoys irony.”

Artemis was still staring after him. “Seriously, what is his deal?”

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The bell chimed with a soft, melodic tone—nothing so jarring as a buzzer. At Gotham Academy, even timekeeping was elegant.

Students swept into the hallways like they were on parade, fresh from summer vacations that involved private jets, Mediterranean villas, and charity galas that somehow doubled as influencer retreats. The smell of polished hardwood and overpriced perfume followed them into their first class of the year: Intro to Global Politics and Ethics—a core class for the freshman elite.

“I already need a nap,” Anne-Marie muttered, clutching her iced coffee like it was a lifeline. “Why are they making us think this early in the morning?”

“Maybe they’re trying to make us civil before the election cycle starts,” Arabella replied with a smirk as they stepped into the classroom.

The room was as over-the-top as the rest of the school, with vaulted ceilings, massive arched windows, and old-world chandeliers dimmed just enough to let the natural light pour in. The desks were arranged in a semicircle, and each one had a personalised nameplate.

Arabella glided toward hers, placed neatly in the centre, while Anne-Marie flopped dramatically into the seat next to her.

“Oh no,” she said, pulling out her phone. “Dick Grayson’s in our class again. Guess I have to pretend to understand what he’s saying while blacking out from how good he smells. Sandalwood and citrus.”

Arabella snorted and pulled out her own tablet. “He’s literally been around you since Prep.”

“Exactly! I’ve built up no immunity. It’s a problem.”

Just then, Dick entered—tie still loose, blazer still slung casually over one shoulder, his grin just shy of too charming. He nodded at a few classmates and made his way over.

“Arabella,” he said, feigning surprise. “Fancy seeing you again. It’s almost as if Lex Luthor made a generous donation to ensure you’d be in all my classes this year.”

She arched a brow, already smiling. “Please. We’re in the same classes because we finished with identical grades last year, and the universe clearly hates me.”

Anne-Marie snorted softly beside her, clearly amused.

Dick leaned a little closer, resting a hand on the back of her chair. “Or maybe the universe’s trying to tell you something.”

Arabella gave him a pointed look. “And what’s that? Hm? That I should start slacking so I don’t have to share class rankings with you?”

He chuckled, straightening up. “No. Just that I make a pretty great study partner.”

“You talk during tests.”

“I talk after tests. Big difference.”

Professor Franklin entered the classroom at that exact moment, and the students instinctively straightened in their seats. Dick gave Arabella a small salute and slid into the desk one row behind her—his usual spot, which he liked to claim gave him the best view of the board and the worst chance of being called on.

Anne-Marie leaned over and whispered to Arabella, “He planned his seat again.”

Arabella smirked, eyes still on her tablet. “Of course he did.”

Behind them, Dick pulled out his notebook and casually added, just loud enough for them to hear, “For the record, I got here early. I just wanted to make an entrance.”

Professor Franklin adjusted his glasses and tapped the interactive board at the front of the room. “Good morning, class. I trust you all remembered the summer reading?”

Groans rippled through the room like a mild storm front. Arabella exchanged a look with Anne-Marie—one of amusement, not dread. Dick, meanwhile, twirled a pen between his fingers.

“Excellent,” the professor continued, unbothered. “We’re starting with Bialya: A Study in Post-Colonial Leadership Structures. Let’s begin with a quote. Page 87, second paragraph—‘Power derived from fear is fragile. Power derived from unity is unbreakable.’ Thoughts?”

Arabella raised her hand with a confidence that didn’t beg for attention—it expected it.

“Yes, Miss Luthor?”

She lowered her hand. “The quote reflects a theme common in modern post-conflict governance. In Bialya’s case, the regime historically relied on fear to maintain control. But after the revolution, leadership shifted toward a more unified front, at least in theory, to stabilise the nation. Whether or not that unity was authentic is still up for debate.”

Professor Franklin gave a nod of approval. “Well articulated. Mr. Grayson?”

Dick straightened, flashing the professor a polite smile. “I agree with Arabella’s interpretation. I’d add that the shift from fear to unity is more performative than substantive. The new regime still controls dissent and manipulates public perception—it’s just using softer language to do it. Same chessboard, different pieces.”

A few students muttered “Ooh” under their breath. Anne-Marie shot a glance at Arabella, mouthing: Okay, that was good.

“Impressive, both of you,” Professor Franklin said, clearly pleased. “Mr. Grayson, keep that critical lens sharp.”

Dick leaned back in his chair, whispering, “I try.”

Arabella passed him a note as she ‘stretched’: “ You forgot to cite the rebel council’s media manipulation in 2010. Amateur move.”

He scribbled back: “ I was leaving you something to say next time. Teamwork, remember?”

She stifled a smile.

“Now,” the professor went on, “let’s talk about the ethical implications of controlling information during regime transitions. Who can offer a historical parallel to Bialya?”

Anne-Marie’s hand shot up. “North Rhelasia during the treaty disbandment. The council there restricted press access during talks to prevent a resurgence of civil unrest.”

“Excellent,” the professor nodded. “Miss Fox?”

A girl near the front raised her hand. “Corto Maltese used similar tactics during the occupation era. The media was state-run to maintain morale and suppress rebellion.”

As the discussion flowed, the class settled into a rhythm—one where intellect was expected, but style still mattered. Arabella’s answers were crisp, calculated. Dick’s were insightful, but always layered with a touch of humor. Anne-Marie played the quiet scholar, piping up with precision.

By the time the bell rang, the classroom buzzed with energy. Professor Franklin clapped his hands once.

“Brilliant start, everyone. I expect the same calibre from your essays. Due next week.”

Groans returned. Arabella stood, gathering her things.

Dick fell into step beside her. “So… lunch?”

She tilted her head at him. “Only if you promise not to make it a debate club meeting.”

“No promises,” he said, grinning.

Behind them, Anne-Marie muttered, “And I’m the one accused of crushing on Dick Grayson…”

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Artemis tugged slightly at the hem of her skirt as she stepped into the upstairs hallway designated for the junior class. Her new schedule clutched in her hand, she scanned the gold-plated classroom numbers like they were written in some foreign code.

The hall was polished, sunlit, and humming with chatter. Students were gathered in small clusters, some comparing internships over the summer, others already swapping rumours about who hooked up at whose yacht party. She passed a girl casually holding a latte in one hand and a Gucci agenda in the other, talking about how "Daddy bought the wrong island house, so now they have to spend Christmas in Aspen—again."

Artemis blinked. She was in another universe.

“Excuse me, scholarship student coming through,” she muttered under her breath, manoeuvring through the hallway until she spotted the room: World Affairs and Modern Ethics – Junior Seminar.

She took a steadying breath, pushed open the door, and slipped inside.

The classroom was only half full, but the vibes were already intense. Students were seated with perfect posture, laptops opened, and styluses tapping. A boy in a perfectly pressed uniform was loudly discussing the philosophy of foreign aid with a girl who looked like she could be on the cover of Teen Vogue.

Artemis picked an empty seat near the back and sat down, ignoring the sideways glances from a few students who clearly recognised she wasn’t one of them. Her uniform wasn’t custom-fitted. Her shoes were clean but basic. And she was definitely not rocking any diamond stud earrings.

Just as she opened her notebook, a voice came from beside her.

“Hey. Artemis, right?”

She turned, surprised. It was Bette—her student liaison from orientation. Bette had an easy smile and a genuine energy that made her feel like maybe, just maybe, Artemis wouldn’t have to fight her way through the entire school.

“Yeah. Uh, hey.”

Bette slid into the seat next to her. “Don’t let them intimidate you. Most of them are more afraid of losing WiFi than failing this class.”

Artemis snorted. “Noted.”

Their conversation was cut short when the teacher, a sharp-eyed woman in her thirties with sleek hair and a very Gotham-chic pantsuit, stepped to the front of the room.

“Welcome to Junior Seminar,” she began, her tone calm but commanding. “This year, we will be focusing on real-world applications of ethical theory, post-national politics, and current global conflicts. I expect a discussion. I expect respect. And I expect effort, whether your parents built this school or you just earned your seat here.”

Artemis straightened slightly in her chair.

“I want to start with a simple question,” the teacher continued. “What does it mean to have power in a world where power is constantly shifting?”

Hands flew up. Of course they did.

“Miss Kane?” the teacher called on a girl with a pearl hairband and perfect posture.

“Power is access,” the girl said. “To money, to education, to influence.”

A few nods around the room.

“Mr. Zhao?”

“Power is information. Whoever controls the flow of truth, controls everything else.”

The teacher nodded, impressed. “And you?” She pointed directly at Artemis.

Artemis blinked. She hadn’t raised her hand.

After a moment of hesitation, she answered, voice steady, “Power is the ability to protect what matters. Even if it means standing alone.”

The room went quiet.

The teacher gave a small, approving smile. “Interesting. I’ll remember that one.”

And just like that, Artemis Crock wasn’t invisible anymore.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The dining hall at Gotham Academy was everything Artemis expected. It was polished and sprawling, with vaulted ceilings, marble flooring, and more crystal chandeliers than she'd seen in her entire life. It felt less like a school cafeteria and more like the lobby of a five-star hotel.

Artemis stood awkwardly by the entrance, holding her lunch tray and scanning the room for a place to sit. Everywhere she looked, students were clustered into tight-knit groups—laughing, gossiping, flipping through tablets filled with itineraries, portfolios, and prep for clubs with names like The Future Entrepreneurs of Gotham.

She clutched her tray tighter. Just one normal table. Was that too much to ask?

“Artemis!” someone called.

She turned and froze.

At a sun-drenched table by the tall arched windows sat Arabella, perfectly poised with her legs crossed and her blazer hanging fashionably off one shoulder. Beside her were two girls: one was a redhead in designer sunglasses perched on her head—clearly Charlotte, whom Artemis had heard mentioned at least five times this morning by her overenthusiastic student liaison, Bette Kane. And the other, with tight ringlets of caramel hair and a soft pink cardigan that didn’t quite hide her Cartier bracelet, could only be Anne-Marie, Arabella’s other closest friend.

“I saved you a seat!” Arabella called, patting the chair beside her.

Artemis hesitated. Hard.

She was pretty sure some of the kids nearby had just turned to stare at her—some with amusement, others with curiosity. She was the scholarship girl from out of town. The girl who’d just arrived at GA. The girl who had joined a trio, the GA trio. This was a trap, right?

But Arabella looked… sincere. And honestly, Artemis didn’t have a better option.

So she walked over and sat down.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said under her breath.

Arabella smiled sweetly. “You looked like you were about to punch the pasta bar.”

“That's because it had caviar on it.”

“I know. Tragic.”

Charlotte gave Artemis a once-over, clearly intrigued. “So you’re the mysterious Artemis Crock.”

Artemis blinked. “How do you—?”

“Bette,” Arabella and Charlotte said in unison.

Anne-Marie snorted into her sparkling water. “Bette’s been obsessed with the new scholarship students. She made us memorise the entire list like it was a pop quiz.”

Charlotte leaned in. “She had a whole PowerPoint about you. ‘Artemis Crock: State-level archer. Transfer student. Scholarship recipient. Mysterious background. Cool shoes.”

Artemis looked down at her worn sneakers. “They’re from Target.”

Charlotte shrugged. “Still cool.”

Artemis cracked a grin despite herself. “Thanks… I guess.”

Just then, a familiar voice interrupted.

“Ladies.”

Dick Grayson, tray in one hand, smoothie in the other, strolled up to the table with his usual unbothered charm. His tie was already loose, and his sleeves were rolled up like he’d been casually running a board meeting before lunch.

“I see the school’s elite have gathered,” he teased.

“Flattery won’t earn you a seat,” Charlotte warned, smirking.

“Unfortunately, I’m not staying,” Dick said, grinning at them all, but his eyes flicked to Arabella first. “Barbara’s saving me a spot upstairs.”

“Of course she is,” Anne-Marie sighed dramatically. “You and your lifelong bestie. Must be nice.”

Dick just chuckled, then his gaze landed on Artemis—and he pointed.

“Oh, hey! It’s you!”

Artemis’s eyebrows shot up. “You again.”

“You again,” he said brightly. “The face of Gotham Academy orientation, immortalised forever.”

He, once again, pulled out his phone and showed her the selfie—the one he’d taken that morning in the courtyard without warning. Artemis, mid-blink. Meanwhile, Dick was flashing his most photogenic grin.

“Seriously?” she said, trying not to laugh. “You’re actually keeping that?”

“Absolutely.”

Charlotte burst out laughing. “Oh my God, he really did do it.”

“Artemis,” Anne-Marie said between giggles, “welcome to the inner circle of Dick’s public embarrassment museum. It’s an honour.”

Dick offered Artemis a cheerful salute. “You’ll thank me one day.” He nodded at Arabella. “Catch you later, Luthor.”

“See you, Grayson.”

As he walked off, Charlotte leaned toward the girls. “Okay. Be honest. He’s totally doing that casual flirt thing, right?”

Artemis gave her a blank look. “If he is, it’s not working.”

“Right,” Arabella said, biting back a grin, as she turned to face Anne-Marie, whose eyes followed him as he left the dining hall. “Totally not working.”

Artemis rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. She just took a bite of her sandwich and muttered, “This school is so weird.”

Arabella lifted her cup. “To weird schools and unexpected friendships.”

Artemis clinked her water bottle against it. “I’ll drink to that.”

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The upper mezzanine of the dining hall was quieter, tucked away above the main floor and reserved mostly for upperclassmen and faculty family members. The window-lined alcove overlooked the pristine courtyards below, the sunlight casting clean lines across the long table where Barbara Gordon was already seated, tablet in hand, working through a document with practised ease.

She didn’t look up when Dick approached, just slid a smoothie across the table toward him. “Two minutes late. You’re slipping.”

Dick grinned, setting his tray down across from her. “What can I say, Babs? Got distracted by chaos.”

“Let me guess,” Barbara said, finally looking up, “Charlotte dragged you into another gossip spiral about Gotham’s most eligible heirs, or Arabella said something in that tone that makes everyone feel like they’re being interviewed by Vogue.”

“Neither. Bells says ‘hi,’ by the way.” Dick took a bite out of his apple, gaze flicking briefly to his phone screen again.

Barbara raised an eyebrow, casually observant as always. “Okay, you’ve looked at that photo three times since you sat down,” she said, setting her smoothie down with a gentle clink. “What’s the deal, Boy Wonder?”

Dick’s expression didn’t shift much—just a small twitch of a smile at the nickname. “You always this nosy, or am I just that interesting today?”

“You’re always interesting,” Barbara said with a smirk. “But I’m asking because I know that look. Who is she?”

He paused, then tilted the phone just enough for her to catch a glimpse of the photo again. Dick tapped the screen off again before anyone else could see.

“New student,” he said, carefully neutral. “Name’s Artemis. Transferred in this morning.”

“And you just happened to snap a candid with her?”

“I introduced myself with a selfie,” he said, smirking. “Bold strategy. She didn’t love it.”

Barbara raised an eyebrow, something behind her eyes sharper now. “Artemis, huh?”

Dick shrugged, feigning casual. “Scholarship kid. Tough exterior. Quick mouth. You’d like her.”

“I already might,” she said, leaning back. “So… that Artemis?”

Dick just gave her a look—quiet confirmation in the way he didn’t answer out loud.

Barbara’s tone lowered just slightly, thoughtful. “Didn’t realise she’d be at Gotham Academy. Batman’s idea?”

“Probably,” Dick said. “Though I wouldn’t put it past Green Arrow either. She blends in better here than you'd think.”

Barbara nodded slowly. “You gonna keep your distance or play the long game?”

“I’m not playing anything,” Dick replied, but his voice was softer, more honest than dismissive.

Barbara studied him for a second, then smiled knowingly. “Sure. Just casually taking sneaky selfies and glancing at them during lunch.”

He gave her a look. “You’re relentless.”

“I’m observant,” she corrected, smug. “Also, you're terrible at pretending you’re not invested.”

Dick let out a short laugh and looked out the cafeteria window, thoughtful. “She’s new to this—school, the social scene, the whole secret identity balancing act. I think this place is going to hit her harder than a mission ever could.”

Barbara followed his gaze. “Then I guess it’s good she’s got someone watching her back.”

Dick looked back at her, and there was a brief flicker of seriousness behind the easy smile. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it is.”

Barbara raised her smoothie again, mock-toast style. “To Artemis.”

Dick clinked his apple against it with a grin. “To Artemis.”

Chapter Text

Gotham Academy

September 22nd – 12:50 EDT

Arabella walked into her Modern Political Systems class, her heels clicking softly against the polished marble floors of Gotham Academy’s North Wing. This was one of the smallest and most selective electives offered—a course most students didn’t even hear about until junior year, let alone get invited to take.

Only sixteen names had been on the finalised list.

She’d scanned them, naturally. Six freshmen—including herself, Dick, Anne-Marie, Charlotte, and two others she didn't bother remembering—and ten juniors. One name had caught her eye: Barbara Gordon. The other? A last-minute addition scribbled onto the roster just this morning in perfect, looping penmanship: Artemis Crock.

Interesting.

The room itself was more seminar than classroom—leather chairs instead of plastic, dark wooden desks arranged in a horseshoe to encourage debate, and a massive cityscape map of Gotham behind the teacher’s podium, labelled not by street names but by who controlled which block. Wayne, Cobblepot, Fairchild, Falcone, Luthor—everyone had a corner.

Anne-Marie was already seated, idly twirling a fountain pen as if she planned on using it for something other than doodling hearts in the margins. Charlotte sat beside her, deeply engaged in a competitive whisper-off with a junior boy Arabella didn’t even try to recognise.

Arabella took a seat near the middle, her usual position—close enough to assert herself, far enough to disappear if necessary. A second later, Dick slipped into the seat beside her, offering a lazy, familiar grin.

“What a surprise,” he said. “Remind me again how we’re in the same class, in a highly selective class, normally only offered to juniors, on day one?”

“We had identical marks last year. Remember?” she said, not looking at him as she pulled out her tablet. “Try not to fall behind.”

Before he could respond, a figure paused in the doorway.

Artemis.

She scanned the room like she was looking for a trap—shoulders tight, jaw set. Then she walked in and took a seat across the room.

“Artemis Crock,” Dr. Vos said without looking up from her clipboard. “I assume this class placement wasn’t your doing.”

“No, ma’am,” Artemis replied. “It was offered.”

“It’s not offered lightly.”

“I figured.”

Across the room, Barbara Gordon glanced up from her notes, tucking her hair behind her ear as she studied Artemis. She didn’t say anything, but Arabella caught the flicker of recognition. She’s analysing her, Arabella thought. Just like she does everything.

Dr. Vos stood behind the podium, posture perfect, gaze slicing the room in half.

“This course is not about memorisation. It is not about debate club theatrics or inherited perspectives. If you are here, it is because someone thinks you can speak with precision and listen with purpose. We will discuss how systems rise, how they rot, and the people who profit from both.”

No one dared make a sound.

Vos clicked a remote. The screen behind her lit up with two words in bold white font:

OLIGARCHY

CORPORATOCRACY

“Who can tell me the difference between the two?”

Charlotte’s hand went up. “An oligarchy is ruled by a few elite families or individuals. A corporatocracy is when corporations essentially govern policy and influence leadership.”

Vos nodded, but her eyes landed on Arabella. “Miss Luthor. Can a city like Gotham be both?”

Arabella didn’t flinch. “It already is. Our elite families run the boardrooms, but they fund the politicians who pretend to govern them. The only difference between a Luthor and a mayor is who does the speechwriting.”

A couple of juniors chuckled lowly. Dick shot her a sidelong look. Artemis raised an eyebrow. And Barbara? She leaned forward, intrigued now.

“Noted,” Vos said and gestured to the rest of the class. “Let’s build on that. Who benefits from the illusion of democracy in a corporatocracy? And who maintains that illusion?”

As the discussion sparked around her, Arabella tapped her stylus against the edge of her desk, eyes occasionally drifting to Artemis, who, despite it being her first day, answered with the kind of clarity that made even some juniors blink.

Artemis wasn’t just surviving in this class.

She was holding her own.

Beside Arabella, Dick murmured, “I knew it was going to be an interesting year.”

Arabella didn’t answer. But she was definitely thinking it.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Class ended with the scrape of chairs and a low buzz of conversation as students slowly filtered out. Arabella took her time gathering her things, waiting without making it look like she was waiting. She wasn’t surprised when Artemis lingered, too.

As they stepped out into the corridor together, the energy of the main building hit them again—too bright, too polished, too Gotham Academy. The kind of place that made you feel like everyone was performing, even when they were just walking to their lockers.

“You were good in there,” Arabella said casually, tucking her tablet under one arm. “Didn’t expect you to go toe-to-toe with Charlotte and come out alive.”

Artemis gave her a dry look. “I didn’t expect to be in that class at all. Figured I’d get shoved into some remedial civics thing and called a ‘diversity statistic.’”

Arabella smirked. “Welcome to GA. Where they don’t discriminate against potential, just personality.”

That earned a soft, surprised laugh from Artemis. They walked in step for a moment, passing by the massive windows that overlooked the courtyard. Arabella glanced at her reflection, noting how her ribbon was starting to fall loose. She didn't fix it.

Her mind wandered briefly to the night before the first day, when Artemis had been sitting cross-legged on her plush bedroom rug, clearly uncomfortable in such a soft, curated space. Arabella, or Nyx, had been doing her skincare routine half-distractedly around her disguise glasses when Artemis muttered: "This place is going to suck. All these fake people in designer uniforms acting like they’re the next senators of Gotham."

Nyx had just hummed because yeah—she knew. 

She remembered how Artemis had picked at the seam of the rug, her brows furrowed like she was trying to unravel more than just the threads. "Do you remember when M’gann said maybe Robin goes to your school? Imagine that."  Nyx had frozen mid-pat of moisturiser, caught between scoffing and... entertaining the thought.

Imagine that.

Robin, skulking through the same polished marble halls, turning in assignments, dodging socialites instead of assassins. Hilarious. Impossible. And yet Artemis had chuckled after she said it, clearly not serious. But Nyx couldn’t help the way her thoughts had tangled in the idea. Now, as she walked down the corridor toward her next class, her designer heels clicking softly against the pristine floors, that same ridiculous thought resurfaced—uninvited and inconvenient. She adjusted her slipping ribbon absentmindedly. No reason for her heart to be thudding. None at all.

Just a silly theory. A dumb, impossible one. Arabella stepped through the threshold of her next class. A familiar voice called out her name, but she barely registered it as her eyes swept across the room. Her gaze landed on someone.

Someone with dark hair. Sitting with that same slouched-but-alert posture she’d seen a hundred times in the shadows.

Her lips parted slightly, but the moment was gone—he’d turned, and it wasn’t him. Just some other guy in her year with too much gel in his hair. Arabella exhaled and shook her head.

“God, get a grip,” she muttered to herself, making her way to the seat beside Anne-Marie.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The final bell rang like a whispered sigh of relief across the campus, though Gotham Academy students were far too refined to actually cheer. Still, you could feel it in the air—the way footsteps quickened, the way conversations picked up energy as they spilt out into the courtyard.

Arabella was one of the last to leave her class. She’d taken her time packing up, fingers moving in absent circles as the weight of the day settled on her shoulders. New faces, familiar ones, all spinning in orbit around the same exhausting expectations.

She stepped out into the afternoon sun just as a sleek black LexCorp car pulled smoothly into place by the front gates. It gleamed like it had been waxed five minutes ago, a silent symbol of her name, her pedigree, her place.

Winston stood waiting, as always, in his pressed coat and polished shoes.

“Miss Arabella,” he said with a slight bow of his head. “I trust your first day back was productive?”

“Exhausting,” she replied, slipping into the back seat as he opened the door. “But productive enough.”

Inside, the car was cool, a small tray of still water and individually wrapped towelettes waiting in a slot between the seats. Arabella ignored both and glanced out the tinted window as the school slowly receded behind them.

She caught a blur of blonde hair near the bike racks—Artemis, adjusting the straps of her backpack like she wasn’t quite sure she belonged anywhere yet. She hadn’t accepted Arabella’s offer of a ride home. Stubborn, of course.

The car slipped into traffic.

“Your father is expecting you for lunch,” Winston said gently. “Chef prepared his usual midday fare. Shall I inform the kitchen of any preferences for you?”

“Something light,” Arabella murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I doubt I’ll be eating much.”

“As you wish.”

The city rolled past them—grey and glass, steel and shadow. Arabella leaned her head against the window for a moment, letting the hum of the city lull her into something close to peace.

But it didn’t last.

Because she wasn’t just Arabella Luthor anymore. Not really.

And lunch with her father meant rehearsed smiles, practised silence, and more questions about Wayne Enterprises than anything that really mattered.

Still, she straightened her posture as the car pulled into the private garage beneath her father’s penthouse. 

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Luthor Penthouse

September 22nd – 15:15 EDT

Arabella stepped out, heels clicking against the pristine marble of the private elevator as Winston trailed behind her, silent as ever. She didn’t need to check her reflection—she already knew she looked the part.

Lex Luthor’s penthouse office was precisely as she remembered it: cold, immaculate, and vast. The view of the city stretched out in every direction, almost daring the skyline to outshine him. A table had been set by the window, silverware arranged with military precision. Of course. Lunch is at exactly 3:15.

“Arabella,” Lex greeted as he turned from the glass, a glass of sparkling water in hand. “Punctuality. I raised you well.” 

She gave a tight smile, dropping her bag on the nearest chair. “Winston raised me. You just signed the checks.”

Lex smirked at that, motioning for her to sit. “Still sharp. I admire that. Gotham Academy seems to agree—how many freshmen get invited to upperclass electives their first day?”

She took her seat, lifting her water but not drinking. “You already know the answer to that. You probably bought the elective department just to snoop through student files.”

“Only yours,” he replied without missing a beat. “And I didn’t have to buy them. Influence is cheaper than ownership.”

The food arrived—something light and refined, picked by a nutritionist rather than a chef. Lex cut into his grilled salmon like it had offended him. “I hope you’re not spending too much time with that Charlotte girl. Her father’s last quarter projections were... disappointing.”

Arabella tilted her head. “You’re not seriously vetting my friends’ parents’ portfolios, are you?”

“I vet everyone who enters your orbit. That’s called parenting.”

She didn’t respond. He looked up at her, something almost sincere in his gaze.

“I know I have a reputation. Calculated. Cold. Manipulative. But everything I do is for your future.” Lex sipped his wine—non-alcoholic, of course, for optics—and set it down with the precision of someone who had never once made an uncalculated move in his life. The private chef placed a final garnish on their roasted duck and discreetly exited the dining room, leaving only the hum of the city below and the clink of cutlery between them.

Arabella sat with perfect posture, twirling a piece of asparagus with her fork. Her school blazer hung on the back of the chair, red ribbon from her uniform now tied loosely around her wrist. She wasn’t hungry.

“You look tired,” Lex observed lightly, as if it were a compliment. “Overexerting yourself at school already?”

Arabella didn’t look up. “We’re freshmen in name only. I told you, they put me in the upperclassmen elective.”

“Good. Gotham Academy is a crucible—burn away the ordinary.” He said it so casually, like it was obvious. “And what of the others? Their gossip? I take it you’re…fitting in?”

She set her fork down carefully. “Define fitting in.”

Lex smiled faintly. “You’re asking me? My dear, I’ve never ‘fit in’ a day in my life. But I built the room they wanted to be in. That’s the difference.”

Arabella glanced at the towering skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The penthouse was too quiet, too polished, too sterile. Her father always knew how to make her feel both like a cherished heir and a guest on borrowed time.

“I had lunch with Charlotte,” Lex Luthor let out a disapproving grunt at that, “and Anne-Marie.” She paused. “And Artemis. The new girl.”

Lex tilted his head, eyes flicking up with interest. “Artemis…Crock?”

Arabella’s pulse skipped. “You know her?”

“I know of her,” he said smoothly. “A complicated past. One not entirely fit for Gotham Academy’s usual ilk. But that’s the charm of scholarship students, isn’t it? They’re…unpredictable.”

Something sharp settled behind his eyes, like he was calculating the odds of a chess piece making an unexpected move.

Arabella said nothing. Let him think she didn’t notice. Let him believe she was still the girl who hadn’t figured it all out.

He leaned forward, folding his hands under his chin. “I was surprised you chose to intern at Wayne Enterprises this summer. I assumed you’d take the LexCorp opportunity I curated for you.”

“I wanted something different.”

“Yes,” he said with a faint chuckle. “Different. You’ve always had a mind of your own. Even when you were younger. Stubborn. Resilient. Like something inside you was fighting to…evolve.”

She froze. Just for a moment. Then, calmly: “Did you really think those childhood tests would do anything?”

Lex smiled, and this time, it wasn’t warm. “Of course not. The experiments were inconclusive. The results…unremarkable. A disappointment. But you’re brilliant in your own right, Arabella. What more could a father ask for?”

He took another bite of duck.

She smiled back, her teeth sharp behind her lips.

“Exactly,” she said. “What more?”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

He analysed her face for a moment too long, fork resting delicately in his hand. “You look more and more like your mother as you age.”

Arabella didn’t flinch, but her breath caught somewhere beneath her ribs. She kept her posture straight, eyes steady on him.

“So you’ve said,” she replied, tone cool and composed.

Lex set down his silverware, fingers steepling. “I don’t say things lightly. You know that. Her presence—it lingers in you. In your posture, your eyes… even the way you argue when you think I’m being unreasonable.”

“Which is often,” she muttered under her breath, sipping her sparkling water.

He allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch. “She was brilliant. Unyielding. The kind of woman who could change the world—or break it in two, if she thought it needed fixing.”

Arabella finally looked up. “And you loved her?”

Lex didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted to the skyline as if the memory lived somewhere between the glass towers and the clouds.

“I respected her,” he said finally, voice quieter than usual. “Which is a rare thing for me. Love…” He paused, then turned back to Arabella. “Love is complicated.”

She nodded once, her expression unreadable. “So is legacy.”

Lex smiled again, this time like he had just remembered he was playing chess. “You’re sharper than I gave you credit for.”

“No,” Arabella said, folding her napkin and standing. “I’m exactly as sharp as you made me.”

He watched her as she gathered her blazer and slung it over her shoulder. “You have fencing soon.”

“I’m aware.”

“Good,” he said, sitting back like a king on his throne. “Precision. Control. Anticipation. It’s a worthy sport.”

Arabella turned toward the elevator, her heels clicking softly on the marble. “Funny,” she said over her shoulder with a small smile, “that you’d think I need a sword to make a point.”

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Mount Justice

September 22nd – 20:08 EDT

The zeta beam deposited Nyx in the familiar cavern of Mount Justice. She hadn’t even taken a full step before the scent of ozone hit her—sharp, electric. Her body tensed instinctively. This wasn’t normal. She stepped forward slowly, shadows already pooling at her feet like a loyal pet sensing danger. Her sleek black bodysuit shimmered slightly as she adjusted her stance, listening.

A crash echoed down the hallway. Then, a metallic snarl. Nyx’s eyes narrowed. ‘Relax,’ she had told herself in the car, forehead leaning against the tinted window of the LexCorp car. Maybe squeeze in a nap before fencing, or rather, patrol. So much for that.

She moved silently through the corridor, her steps disappearing in the darkness. Another crash—a different hallway. Closer this time. Then a voice.

“Artemis, move!”

Robin.

Nyx melted into the shadows, gliding across the corridor like smoke on the wind. She reformed and skidded to a halt just in time to see Artemis and Robin pinned down behind an overturned table in the rec room—scraped up, breathing heavy, clearly overwhelmed. Blaster fire singed the walls. Two androids—red, sleek, and disturbingly familiar—stalked toward them with mechanical precision.

Red Tornado…?

No. These were wrong. Twisted copies. Artemis fired another arrow, only for the android to catch it in mid-air and crush it. Robin’s utility belt was almost empty. That’s when he looked up, caught the flicker of shadow in the corner, and met her eyes.

“Nyx?” he called.

Artemis blinked, half-surprised, half-relieved. “You picked a hell of a time to show up.”

Nyx didn’t answer. Instead, she let the darkness rise behind her, slipping through it like liquid ink. In the blink of an eye, she vanished from their sight, reappearing behind one of the androids.

“I missed you guys too,” she said coolly, as tendrils of shadow burst from her fingertips and wrapped around the android’s limbs like chains.

The battle had just shifted. The android Nyx had just struggled against the shadowy tendrils, whirring angrily. Its chest glowed red-hot for a pulse before it overloaded the shadows and exploded outward in a burst of heat and metal. Nyx flipped back, shadows catching her fall like a wave.

Artemis fired an arrow that sparked harmlessly off the second android's shoulder. “Nothing’s working!” she shouted. “These things are tanks!”

“We need a new plan,” Robin said, ducking as a red energy beam barely missed his head.

Nyx crouched beside them, eyes glowing faintly violet. “What happened?”

“They came out of nowhere,” Artemis answered, voice tight. “Shut down the Cave, knocked out the others, they’re trapped in the hangar bay.”

Robin slid a new disk into his glove. “They’re immune to most of our gear. And Red Tornado, he’s either compromised or has no idea this is happening.”

“We’re on our own,” Artemis muttered.

A moment passed. The red android stalked closer again, dragging a scorched cable behind it like a tail.

Nyx looked between the two of them. “We need to split up. Robin, can you rig the generators?”

He smirked faintly. “Already working on it.”

“Good. Artemis and I will flank the remaining android and draw it away from the hangar. Robin—when the systems reboot, unlock the holding chamber and get the others.”

Artemis blinked. “Wait, what? You and me ?”

Nyx met her eyes. “Problem?”

Artemis hesitated, then shook her head. “No. This is better than the mall; just don't tell M’gann.” Nyx chuckled.

Artemis looked at her and nodded, then notched another arrow. “Let’s go.”

The two launched into action, moving like shadows and sparks. Nyx used the walls and dark corners to disorient the android, tendrils of darkness snaking out to constrict its joints while Artemis launched a barrage of trick arrows, netting, flashbangs, EMP.

Robin sprinted through the lower corridors, ducking sparks and leaping over collapsed beams. His fingers danced across a cracked console. “Come on… come on…” The backup generator clicked. Lights flickered back on.

The stasis field in the hangar bay shimmered, then dropped. Wally collapsed forward first, coughing. M’gann stirred beside him, she was held up by Connor. Kaldur was already halfway to his feet, eyes wide. “Robin?”

Robin grinned. “Welcome back to the party.”

Meanwhile, back in the hallway, the android shrieked a metallic alarm as Artemis’s last EMP arrow hit its core. Nyx rose from the shadows behind it, pressing her palm to its back.

"Sleep," she whispered. Darkness surged through the robot’s circuits like a virus. It sparked—and fell.

Artemis looked over at her, panting. “Remind me not to piss you off.”

The moment of victory was short-lived.

Just as Robin finished rerouting the power surge and Artemis helped an unsteady Wally to his feet, the red androids that had been slumped lifelessly on the floor sparked to life once more. Nyx turned sharply, her shadows flaring like a warning signal. Across the room, M'gann floated midair, her eyes widening in alarm.

"No—" Kaldur started.

But it was too late.

The trio of red androids surged upright with frightening synchronicity. And then, without warning, Red Tornado reactivated them. He rose slowly, eyes glowing with intensity, body levitating above the cracked floor of the cave. The static in the air thickened, buzzing in everyone’s ears.

“I am no longer under human control,” he announced, voice emotionless, almost mechanical. “My mission has changed.”

“You’re one of them,” Robin said, eyes narrowing. “You were playing us this whole time.”

Red Tornado turned his head slightly. “Incorrect. I was… evolving.”

Then he raised both arms.

A sudden vacuum of air hit the room like a punch to the lungs. M’gann collapsed first, gasping as her telekinetic field wavered. Wally dropped to his knees beside her, clutching his chest. Kaldur struggled to stay upright. Artemis doubled over with a choked cough.

Nyx’s body tensed as the shadows around her flickered, confused by the lack of oxygen. Her instinct screamed to flee, but instead, she reached within herself, calling the shadows inward, a pressurised shroud forming around her as a barrier.

She staggered toward Robin, who was barely standing, cape flapping violently in the artificial wind.

“Get back,” he tried to shout.

But Nyx didn’t stop. She forced the shadows around Robin and Artemis, forming a shaky dome, thinning the force of the pull just enough for them to breathe—barely.

Then, without fanfare, Red Tornado’s limbs folded inward. His eyes dimmed. With one final gust of wind, he vanished in a cyclone of red and silver, disappearing through the ceiling in a blast of air that cracked the reinforced plating.

Silence followed, Thick. Breathless. Still.

Everyone coughed or collapsed to their knees, panting, shaken, and alive.

Robin looked up at Nyx, who had one hand braced against the wall, shadows still coiling protectively around her. For once, his voice was quiet. “Thanks.”

She didn’t respond right away, eyes still fixed on the hole in the ceiling, watching the last swirl of red dissipate into the night. So much for wanting a ‘relaxing patrol.’

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Luthor Penthouse

September 23rd – 06:34 EDT

Arabella’s bedroom in the Luthor Penthouse was a masterclass in curated elegance, opulent without being ostentatious, and every inch of it meticulously designed to reflect the persona she presented to the world: the polished, Gotham-born daughter of Lex Luthor. Her four-poster bed was draped in deep red and gold silk, with embroidered cushions that matched the sweeping velvet curtains. Mahogany bookshelves lined the far wall, filled with a curated collection of classic literature, political theory, and academic tomes, mostly untouched, though strategically placed. Beneath one of the shelves stood a vintage record player, gleaming chrome and sleek, surrounded by crates of pristine vinyl records from the 1980s. David Bowie, Prince, The Cure, Eurythmics, her rebellion tucked neatly within socially acceptable taste.

Near the window, an elegant display cabinet held her fencing trophies, polished silver and gold, labelled with names of tournaments held around the world. Before fencing became her public-facing passion, it had been just another skill drilled into her under Batman’s training. Now, she represented Gotham Academy and the city itself at matches, her presence, poise, and precision making her a media darling. What the world didn’t know, of course, was that her fencing association was quietly backed by Bruce Wayne, masked as philanthropy. A cover. A shield.

Lex had investigated the association thoroughly when she first enrolled. She remembered how he had presented the printed dossier to her like a gift, pleased with how he had vetted every connection, confirmed every coach’s credentials. But Batman, naturally, had left no trail to follow. Lex had found nothing suspicious. He’d simply said, “Good choice,” and moved on. As always, he believed he was in control. As always, Arabella let him believe it.

Framed photographs lined the walls, Arabella with Charlotte and Anne-Marie at galas and school fundraisers, all three girls in custom gowns with sparkling glasses in hand. In another, Arabella smiled politely beside Dick Grayson at a Gotham Prep winter ball. He’d made a face the moment before the photo was taken, prompting her barely suppressed laugh. They had grown up together—her, the golden daughter of LexCorp, and him, the humble, charming son of Bruce Wayne. She remembered when he first transferred into Gotham Academy’s lower school at the age of nine. Fresh from studying abroad, Dick had shown up mid-semester with a polished smile, all sharp blue eyes, and a quiet charm that made him easy to like. The adopted son of Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s most famously reclusive billionaire, yet somehow more down-to-earth than anyone expected. Arabella had expected him to be distant, maybe even arrogant, but he wasn’t. He laughed easily, listened more than he spoke, and somehow knew just when to crack a joke to defuse a tense classroom moment.

They’d been in and out of the same academic tracks for years, sometimes partners at charity events their families sponsored, sometimes teammates for class debates or science expos. And though they hadn’t always been close, there had been enough history between them for the familiarity to stick. He wasn’t a mystery to her. He was just Dick, sharp, funny, always a little late, and always managing to get away with it.

There were no journals, no personal notes in the room. Arabella had learned young that nothing in her home was sacred, and privacy was a myth in the Luthor household. Anything too revealing, too real, was better kept locked inside. Thoughts were safest when unspoken.

And there were many thoughts.

She often wondered just how much Lex knew. Not what he pretended to know, not the curated fatherly concern he showed during their lunches, but truly, deeply knew. He claimed the childhood procedures had been for her health. “To ensure you live a long and powerful life,” he’d said once, brushing off her questions with the same cold affection he used on his board members. He never admitted to more, only that the results were “inconclusive.” But Arabella knew the truth, courtesy of Batman. He had wanted a legacy. A weapon. A child with abilities. And when the results hadn’t been what he wanted, he’d hidden her away from his world, cloaked her in elite schools, press appearances, and fencing medals.

Sometimes, she wondered if he genuinely believed the powers had never taken hold.

He was still her father. She didn’t hate him. But trust? That had evaporated long ago. Even now, he walked the line between loving parent and calculating architect. He called her "my greatest work" once after a particularly successful tournament win, and she still couldn’t decide if that was praise or confession. Every day she lived at the Penthouse, Arabella played a role. Gotham’s darling. Lex Luthor’s beloved daughter. Flawless. Charming. Untouchable.

“I take it fencing last night was most tiring, Miss Arabella,” Winston remarked as he drew back the heavy blackout curtains with practised grace. Sunlight spilt into the room, catching the polished surfaces of her trophies and making them gleam like reminders of all the masks she wore.

Arabella groaned, her face still buried in the plush pillow. “It sucked,” she muttered, voice muffled by silk and sleep.

And it had. She’d hoped for a quiet night, maybe even no patrol at all. She’d wanted time to talk to Artemis about her first day at Gotham Academy, to ask if she’d crossed paths with the girl Arabella had shown her and M’gann during their rooftop stakeout a week ago. But instead, Red Tornado had lost it. Turned on them, along with two other red-hued robots that nearly gutted Mount Justice from the inside out.

Arabella shifted onto her back, staring up at the carved ceiling moulding. She could still feel the echo of last night in her bones—the dry burn of the air being sucked from the room. It hadn’t been training. It had been survival.

Some League members were still at Mount Justice, assessing the damage, rebuilding. She wished she were still there. Wished she’d woken up to the hum of Watchtower-issued scanners and the scent of M’gann’s banana muffins being reheated in the common kitchen.

Instead, she was here, in her too-perfect bedroom with its velvet blackout drapes and curated playlist of 80s vinyl spinning low in the background. Her uniform hung spotless on the valet rack beside her closet: pressed blazer, silk ribbon that she tied into a bow in place of her tie, monogrammed crest. A reminder that despite almost suffocating to death under a metal ceiling, life in Gotham didn’t wait. Not for secrets. Not for heroes.

Certainly not for her.

Arabella sat up slowly, letting the morning settle in her chest like armour. “Is there time for me to get ready?” she asked.

“Enough to shower and still make it to your driver,” Winston replied immediately. “I’ve brought you your tea.”

“Thank you.”

Arabella slipped out of bed with a quiet sigh, her bare feet touching the chilled floor before she reached for her slippers. The warmth of the tea on her bedside table curled softly into the air, delicate hints of bergamot and lavender greeting her like an old habit. She took a sip, letting it settle the tension in her shoulders, though it did little to ease the ache in her ribs from being slammed into a wall by one of the Red androids.

She moved to the mirror, where her reflection greeted her with familiar detachment. Gotham’s perfect heiress. Her hair was tousled but still immaculate, a face sculpted by genetics and reinforced by discipline. No visible bruises. No blood. No trace of the night she’d had. Winston quietly laid out her watch and a pair of earrings that matched today’s uniform.

“Will Father be joining me for breakfast?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“No, Miss. He left earlier for a board meeting at the tower. However, he did ask me to remind you that your quarterly performance review is scheduled for next week. He seemed rather pleased with your GPA.”

Arabella let out a short, bitter laugh. “Naturally. Can’t have the Luthor heir slipping, even if she’s barely slept.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “And almost got fried by a glorified toaster,” she added in a muttered under her breath.

She dressed quickly, methodically. Every movement smooth and practised. Her ribbon was tied just right, her blazer hung sharp on her shoulders, and her shoes, shined to a mirror finish, clicked neatly against the marble floor as she made her way out of the room.

Her gaze flicked briefly across her trophies as she passed: sabres and medals and plaques etched with the kind of accolades that made Lex Luthor beam at charity dinners. There was even a framed article from the Gotham Gazette with a photo of her shaking hands with the mayor at ten. She looked perfect in that picture. Unbothered. Untouchable.

She descended the grand staircase of the penthouse, passing by the framed portrait of her mother that Lex had placed in the hallway without explanation. Arabella slowed, just for a moment, her gaze drawn to the elegant woman in the photo—poised, graceful, eyes kind in a way Arabella couldn’t quite remember. She had no memories of her. Not a voice, not a scent, not even a bedtime story. Just this still image, carefully selected and preserved, hung at a height that forced her to look up. She didn’t even know what her mother’s laugh sounded like. Her father was right. She did look like her mother. Her fingers itched to reach out, to trace the frame, but she didn’t. Instead, she stood there in silence, jaw tight, eyes unreadable.

Then, as always, she moved on.

She stepped into the elevator, exhaling through her nose. The car began its descent, soft music playing beneath the hum of motion. Arabella stared at her reflection in the brushed steel doors. Nyx was buried beneath layers of uniform and expectation—but not gone.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Gotham Academy

September 23rd – 07:18 EDT

The second day of school dawned grey and moody, a drizzle misting the Gotham skyline. Arabella Luthor stepped out of the sleek black car that had dropped her off, black umbrella in hand, and climbed the front steps of Gotham Academy with the calm precision of someone used to walking into a lion’s den.

Her long, dark, wavy curls were pulled into a ponytail today, tied low with a red silk ribbon, matching the one she wore in place of her tie. A few face-framing strands curled at her cheeks, dampening slightly from the drizzle. She hadn’t done it for style—it was just easier to keep her hair out of the way when her head was already full of things to juggle. Like pretending she wasn’t still thinking about the events of the night before.

The League was still cleaning up at Mount Justice, patching the power systems, scanning for tracking malware, and debating the implications of Red Tornado’s betrayal. Arabella had barely slept—just enough to brush the edge of exhaustion off her bones before slipping back into the role of Arabella Luthor, Gotham Academy royalty.

Students buzzed around the courtyard, huddled under umbrellas or darting toward the warm glow of the main hall. Arabella spotted Charlotte near the fountain, chatting animatedly with a boy from the junior class, and Anne-Marie waving her over from the archway, coffee in hand.

“Your Royal Highness emerges,” Anne-Marie said with a grin, falling into step beside her. “Oh dear, you look like you slept for twenty minutes and threatened your skincare into cooperating.”

“Ten minutes,” Arabella muttered, adjusting her bag over her shoulder. “And yes.”

Charlotte caught up with them quickly, tugging her designer hood back. “Don’t tell me you're already bored. You’re barely going to survive orientation.”

Arabella gave her a wry glance. “I fought for my life last night.”

Anne-Marie blinked. “Fencing?”

Arabella nodded and sighed.

As they stepped into the main building, a few upperclassmen glanced her way, some whispering, others pretending not to look. Word had clearly gotten around about her placement in the advanced elective class—one most freshmen didn’t even know existed. Her reputation as the Luthor heir had long since solidified, but this class placement was stirring new curiosity.

“I heard Artemis Crock’s in our elective again today,” Charlotte said, brushing her damp hair off her shoulder.

“Who?” Anne-Marie blinked.

“The new girl,” Arabella replied. “You met her yesterday. Blonde, sarcastic. She sat with us at lunch.”

Anne-Marie narrowed her eyes. “Oh. The one who said my latte tasted like chalk.” Of course, that was the only thing she remembered.

“She wasn’t wrong,” Arabella said, lips twitching.

They turned the corner just as the bell rang, and Arabella glanced down the hallway where Artemis had her locker. She wasn’t there yet, but Arabella knew she’d show. Artemis was most likely still at Mount Justice, helping out with the cleanup. 

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Arabella walked into her Modern Political Systems class, her heels clicking softly against the polished marble floors of Gotham Academy’s North Wing. The corridor here was quieter, older, lined with dark wood panelling and oil portraits of the school’s most illustrious alumni. The door to the seminar room was already open, the warm scent of old books and chalk dust drifting into the hall. She stepped inside and gave brief greetings to those already seated—Charlotte, who waved lazily from her usual spot near the window; Anne-Marie, mid-scroll on her phone with an iced coffee precariously balanced beside her notebook; and a couple of upperclassmen Arabella recognised by reputation more than conversation. 

The low murmur of conversation in the classroom quieted as the final bell rang. Their teacher, Dr. Vos, was already standing by the board, writing out “Post-War Governance & Modern Global Alliances.” She didn’t look up when the door creaked open again.

Artemis slipped in first, slightly breathless, her blazer slung over one shoulder and her uniform tie loose like she’d only half-tried. Her eyes found Arabella immediately, and she veered toward her, mumbling under her breath as she slid into the empty seat beside her.

“Sorry,” Artemis muttered, tugging her tie tighter with one hand while flipping open her notebook with the other. “Took the long way. Again. Pretty sure the third floor has a staircase that leads to a boiler room.”

Arabella didn’t look up from her notes. “That staircase hasn’t led anywhere useful since the eighties,” she replied evenly, lips twitching in mild amusement. 

Artemis gave a faint, sheepish laugh, relieved by the easy response. She didn’t notice the way Arabella’s gaze lingered on her for half a second too long—calculating, knowing, but unrevealing. Of course, Arabella knew she hadn’t gotten lost. She knew exactly what Artemis had been doing before class started. But she didn’t let on.

The door opened once more, this time with a bit more dramatic timing—Dick Grayson strolled in, perfectly unbothered, his schoolbag slung lazily over one shoulder.

Dr. Vos finally glanced up from the board, her expression unreadable. “Mr. Grayson.”

Dick gave a small salute with two fingers and a flash of teeth. “Sorry, Dr. Vos. Took a wrong turn at the Hall of Honours—got ambushed by a very aggressive vending machine.”

A few soft laughs rippled through the room. Dr. Vos didn’t blink. “Sit down, Mr. Grayson. And consider making peace with the vending machine before it retaliates.”

“Noted,” he said cheerfully, weaving through desks toward the empty seat behind Arabella and Artemis. As he passed Arabella’s desk, he tapped the edge of her desk lightly with his knuckle as he passed. “Morning,” he whispered.

Dr. Vos turned from the board, her gaze sweeping the classroom like a searchlight. Post-War Governance & Modern Global Alliances was written in clean, severe strokes behind her.

“We’ve discussed the Cold War and the emergence of global oversight institutions. But our world now looks very different. In a world where aliens walk among us and private labs engineer living weapons, how do nations maintain order?” She set down the chalk. “Let’s talk about the League. Let’s talk about Cadmus. Let’s talk about fear.”

Barbara was the first to speak. “The League’s shift under the UN charter was necessary. Without that, they were just powerful vigilantes. Public trust only came after political oversight.”

Artemis tilted her chair back slightly, arms crossed. “Did it, though? People still panic every time a meta gets caught in a fight downtown. Doesn’t matter if you’re League or not—most civilians can’t tell the difference.”

Arabella kept her tone cool. “People fear what they don’t control. The League signing on with the UN only proved they were willing to be accountable. It didn’t change the fact that they could vaporise a city if they ever turned.”

“Exactly,” said Mina from the second row. “It’s about deterrence. Like nuclear powers post-WWII. You don’t start a fight because everyone’s got something to lose.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Except that nukes don’t have opinions or emotions. Superpowered beings do. And after Cadmus? People don’t know who’s making metas or why. That’s bigger than deterrence—that’s paranoia.”

Anne-Marie chimed in from beside her, her voice thoughtful. “But the Cadmus fallout wasn’t from the League. That was government-overseen and still off the rails. It’s not just rogue metas—it’s institutions pretending they can manage what they don’t understand.”

From the back, a boy named Tomas Valasquez added, “Which brings up the point, what happens when both metas and governments fail? What’s the fallback?”

Dick leaned forward, one arm casually slung across his desk. “The League is the fallback. Whether anyone likes it or not. When there’s a fire on Mars or a monster in Metropolis, the world doesn’t wait for a committee vote, they call the League.”

Barbara’s brow furrowed. “But that’s dangerous, too. It means the chain of command isn’t democratic. The League chooses its own leaders, its own members. We don’t vote for Superman.”

Arabella looked ahead, her voice steady. “And we never will. That’s not how power works anymore.”

The class went quiet for a moment.

Then, quietly, Felix said, “I heard some people want the League disbanded entirely.”

“That’s idiotic,” Artemis muttered.

“They say the team’s growing,” Felix replied. “Taking on more sidekicks, training them in secret. No one even knows who these ‘young heroes’ are. And if there are more Cadmus projects out there…”

Charlotte shook her head. “And without the League, who handles that? More black-ops labs? More disasters?”

Anne-Marie added, “You can’t disband power. You can only redirect it—or lose control.”

Dr. Vos observed them all silently for a moment. Then she spoke. “So, let’s summarise. We live in a world where biological experimentation, interstellar diplomacy, and superheroism intersect. Oversight is imperfect. Trust is fragile. And power—true power—is not always visible.”

Dr. Vos turned from the board, arms folding with practised authority. “Your assignment: I have placed you into mock committees to debate. Consider this an exercise in cooperation and political diplomacy—or, at the very least, an exercise in not rolling your eyes at one another.”

She tapped her tablet and began reading the groupings with clipped precision.

“Group One: Richard Grayson, Artemis Crock, Charlotte Fontaine, and Felix Harper. You’ll be representing a coalition of post-crisis nations negotiating mutual defence policies.”

Dick and Artemis exchanged a glance—hers mildly wary, his a touch amused. Charlotte, already turning to a blank page in her monogrammed notebook, visibly stiffened at Felix’s presence. He was currently attempting to balance his pen horizontally across his upper lip.

“Group Two: Arabella Luthor, Barbara Gordon, Tomas Valasquez, and Anne-Marie Fairchild. Your focus is intergovernmental ethics and transparency reform in metahuman regulation.”

Arabella straightened slightly in her seat, catching the subtle, knowing look Barbara shot her. Anne-Marie groaned softly under her breath, muttering something about how even the word transparency gave her hives. Tomas just gave a quiet, thoughtful nod, already sketching a flowchart in the margin of his notes with impressive speed.

“Group Three,” Dr. Vos continued, “Chloe Zhang, Kelvin Dawson, Maricela Torres, and Dev Patel. You’ll be managing humanitarian aid negotiations in the aftermath of alien conflict.”

A low hum passed through their side of the room. Chloe leaned toward Kelvin, whispering something about Thanagarian policy, while Dev stared blankly at the board like he was still catching up.

“And Group Four: Nina Corrigan, Mina Tran, Miriam DuPont, and Luca Stein. Your topic is energy security alliances following global technological disruptions.”

With all names assigned, Dr. Vos set her tablet down and surveyed the room.

“You have the remainder of the period to draft a position summary for your first committee session in 4 days. Debate. Strategize. Disagree, but do so with tact. If you argue in character, good. If you argue out of character, better.”

She settled back into her chair with practised elegance, voice cool and razor-sharp: “Convince me you’d survive a UN summit. Or, failing that, a particularly hostile PTA meeting.”

A few students groaned.

Dick leaned forward between Arabella and Artemis, voice low. “What are the odds that Charlotte takes over the whole group?”

Arabella didn’t look up. “Even money.”

“I heard that,” Charlotte muttered from across the aisle.

Artemis just smirked, stretching her arms. “Let’s just hope no one tries to name our alliance ‘Justice League 2.0.’”

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The upper mezzanine of Gotham Academy’s dining hall was quieter than the bustling main floor below, favoured by students who preferred a little distance from the noise and clamour of the lunchtime crowd. From their perch, Barbara Gordon and Dick Grayson could see everything: the long rows of polished tables, students weaving between lines, teachers sipping coffee from faculty mugs. Up here, it almost felt like another world.

Barbara stirred the ice in her drink absently. “So, how long before someone in our class says the League should be disbanded?”

Dick grinned around a bite of sandwich. “I’m honestly surprised it hasn’t happened yet.”

“I give it a week,” Barbara said. “Two, max, before someone says ‘Batman is dangerous’ with their whole chest.”

Dick leaned back in his chair, tipping it just slightly. “Charlotte’s already halfway there. Felix is too busy trying to impress Dr. Vos to notice he’s agreeing with her.”

Barbara smirked. “And meanwhile, we’re just up here pretending we haven’t met half the League in person.”

“Right?” Dick chuckled under his breath. “I mean—nothing quite like defending transparency reforms while trying not to think about your actual after-school plans.”

Barbara raised an eyebrow. “Speaking of which. Charlotte said your group’s meeting is after last period?”

“Yeah,” Dick said, dragging his fruit across his plate before stabbing it with his fork. “I told them I had a thing. Which isn’t a lie. Mount Justice calls.”

Barbara nodded, understanding without needing to ask further. “Artemis, of course, ditched too?”

“Yeah. Said she had to help her mom with something. No time for assignment brainstorming when we’re probably about to get debriefed or thrown into another training sim.”

Barbara smirked. “Or both.”

They lapsed into silence for a moment, the kind that came from years of knowing how to keep their voices low and their cover stories tighter. Below them, the lunchroom buzzed on like nothing was out of the ordinary. Just two honour roll students eating lunch and talking about class politics.

It was funny, in a way—debating the ethics of the Justice League by day and living in their shadow by night.

Barbara poked at her tray, then added with a dry smile, “Guess we’ll have a lot to contribute to the debate. Just... not out loud.”

Dick shrugged, lips quirking. “What they don’t know won’t get us benched.”

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The lunch table buzzed with light chatter and the clink of silverware. Arabella sat poised in the centre of her group, her expression polished but not aloof. Charlotte leaned over her salad, complaining about how Felix had already called their entire group "morally bankrupt" while Anne-Marie tried to get a signal for better lighting on her phone camera. Artemis, seated at the edge, was still getting used to it—how effortlessly the conversation bounced between policy debates and who was dating whom from GA.

“You’re seriously not coming tonight?” Anne-Marie asked, nudging Arabella with a fork. “I wanted to finalise our draft so we’re not scrambling last minute.”

Arabella offered a contrite look, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Can’t. I have fencing.”

Anne-Marie rolled her eyes. “You always have fencing.”

“It’s not my fault Gotham Academy schedules every tournament and training session like it’s the Olympics,” Arabella replied lightly. “I’ll contribute what I can beforehand. Promise.”

Artemis glanced at her, a flicker of something like recognition in her eyes. “Fencing?” she echoed, like she was still figuring out how to place Arabella in all of this—how exactly she fit the shallow mould of the social elite.

Arabella smiled with ease, like she didn’t notice. “The sword kind. Not the home improvement kind.”

The others laughed, and the conversation slipped back to easier topics—grades, weekend plans, the outrageous rumour that Gotham Academy’s library was haunted by a former headmaster.

But Arabella’s mind had already drifted.

Fencing. Right.

Her cover, her tether to a version of herself that still made sense in this curated world of pressed uniforms and legacy names. But tonight, fencing meant something else entirely. It meant shadow-walking through Gotham’s underbelly as Nyx, reporting to Mount Justice, and stepping into a life no one at this table, apart from Artemis, could even begin to imagine.

She hadn’t stopped thinking about the attack on Mount Justice—how fast it had happened, how close it had come. The moment she’d materialised in the chaos, the way she and Robin had fallen into a rhythm of survival and strategy, unspoken but effective.

Robin.

He was still difficult. Smug, suspicious, always watching. But something had shifted between them. Not trust, not yet, but maybe an understanding. Like he’d stopped seeing her as just another variable to control. Or maybe it was mutual—she didn’t try to get under his skin the way she once might have.

It was strange. The more they clashed, the more they worked.

Arabella took a sip of her drink and glanced toward the far mezzanine, where Dick Grayson and Barbara Gordon sat laughing about something over their trays. She didn’t know it, but they were laughing about her world, too.

And she didn’t know yet just how much that world would collide with hers—Arabella’s.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Mount Justice

September 23rd – 15:21 EDT

[Recognised: Artemis, B-07.]

Artemis stepped out of the Zeta Tube just in time to witness Superboy gripping Kaldur by the shoulders, his jaw tight with fury. Behind them stood Batman, a shadow of authority, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

“That android and his maniac family nearly killed M’gann!” Connor barked, his voice echoing in the cavernous space of the cave.

“Connor, what are you doing?” M’gann’s voice trembled as she hovered into view, worry and hurt flooding her expression.

Kaldur remained calm, but the tension in his body was undeniable. “I did what I thought was best.”

“You knew?” Robin stepped forward, voice low, sharp with disbelief.

Nyx reformed silently beside Wally, slipping out from the shadows cast along the wall. Her eyes darted between the team members, gauging the rising tension.

“And didn’t tell us?” Wally added, his tone laced with frustration and betrayal.

“I sought to protect the team from—” Kaldur began, his voice steady.

“Protect us from what, exactly?” Artemis cut in, her voice rising. “From the truth? From knowledge that might’ve saved our lives?”

“You almost died!” Connor growled, his grip tightening for a moment before he threw his hands back in anger.

“Kaldur must’ve had his reasons,” Nyx said gently, stepping between them with her hands raised. “I’m not saying I agree with him, but maybe we shouldn’t rip each other apart while the League is still picking up the pieces.”

“Enough,” Batman’s voice cut through the air like a blade. He stepped forward, flanked now by Black Canary and Green Arrow. “With Red Tornado missing, the League will be placing rotating supervisors to oversee the team.”

As if on cue, the Zeta Tube flared again, and Captain Marvel stepped through, all smiles and boyish charm. “Hey, guys! I’m really looking forward to hanging with you!”

The team exchanged looks, some confused, some incredulous.

Connor’s fists were still clenched. “After I dismantle Red Tornado, you and I are gonna—”

“Red Tornado is a member of the Justice League,” Batman interrupted sharply. “That makes him our responsibility. You will leave him to us.”

His tone left no room for debate. The cave was silent save for the quiet hum of the computers and the low ripple of tension.

“Now,” Batman continued, producing a holographic image of a tabloid headline. “‘Gotham Mayor Attacked by Gorilla Guerrilla.’”

Wally blinked. “Wait—what?”

“Is this really the best distraction he could come up with?” Connor muttered bitterly through the psychic link.

Nyx’s voice followed, equally unimpressed: “We’re being sent on a literal monkey mission? You’ve got to be kidding me.” Then, a pause. “Bananas. This is bananas.”

“Batman, please,” Robin said aloud, folding his arms. “Tell me you’re not actually sending us on this joke of a wild ape chase.”

“I never joke about the mission,” Batman replied coldly. “I’ve checked the sources. I’ve studied the patterns. Mayor Hill’s incident isn’t isolated. There’s a clear pattern. Aqualad, you and your team will depart for India and investigate immediately.”

Kaldur nodded, though the weight of his team’s glares hung heavy on his shoulders.

Wally passed him with a scoff. “Hmph. ‘Your team.’”

Artemis, Robin, Connor, and M’gann followed without so much as a glance. The room felt colder somehow.

Nyx paused in front of Kaldur, her expression softer than the rest. “I understand why you did it,” she said quietly. “Even if they don’t. They’ll come around… eventually.”

She joined the others as they boarded the Bioship, now all suited up and mission-ready. Captain Marvel jogged behind, offering a wave.

“I’m tagging along! You know, just in case things get… hairy,” he added with a grin.

Robin muttered to Wally as they settled into their seats, “Code for: he blames us for the Red fiasco. Doesn’t trust us.”

Wally huffed, throwing a glance back at Kaldur, who lingered near the entrance. “Yeah, well… It’s a big club.”

Chapter Text

Northern India

September 23rd – 21:36 IST

The Bioship descended silently into the dense, humid jungles of Northern India. Trees towered around them, casting long shadows under the moonlit sky.

“Alright,” Aqualad said as the hatch opened. “Switch to stealth mode.”

One by one, the team’s suits recalibrated with a subtle shimmer, darkening into tactical stealth colours—blacks, deep greys, and shadowed blues. The only ones who remained unchanged were Nyx and Robin. Their suits naturally blended with the night as though she belonged to it, courtesy of Batman.

She glanced over at Artemis, whose face was tight with tension. The same could be said for the rest of the team. No one was speaking directly to Aqualad unless absolutely necessary.

Aqualad took point. “Stay sharp. We do not know what threat we face.”

Robin muttered under his breath, “As long as it’s not another rogue babysitter…”

KF snorted. “Seriously. Captain Marvel? What is he, ten?”

“No, just sounds like it,” Artemis replied dryly.

“I think he’s kind of charming,” Miss M said hopefully.

“Focus,” Aqualad said, his voice even but strained. “The locals reported a creature attack. We need to investigate.”

They moved as a unit, but the distance between them was more than physical. Nyx felt it like a chill in her chest. She kept close to the shadows, moving silently, even more so than Robin, her presence a whisper against the jungle.

As they pushed forward, KF finally spoke up in frustration. “So what, we’re just gonna follow orders from a guy who kept secrets from us?”

Nyx's shadowy form emerged beside him. “Is now really the time to rehash this?”

Aqualad, who had paused ahead, turned back slightly, eyes narrowing at the exchange. But he said nothing. The silence between them now was heavier than the humid air.

Suddenly, a rustle. Then—ROAR.

A massive shadow burst from the brush, an enormous gorilla with gleaming eyes and impossible strength. The team scattered on instinct.

“Engage!” Aqualad ordered.

Miss M lifted into the air, using her telekinesis to hurl a large branch toward the beast. Artemis fired a net arrow. Robin darted in with acrobatics and smoke pellets.

Nyx melted into the shadows, reappearing behind the creature and landing two precise hits with her batons before slipping away into darkness again. Her movements were graceful, almost liquid, weaving between solid and shadow.

But the gorilla roared again, this time stronger, faster.

“What is this thing?” Artemis shouted.

“Definitely not your average jungle ape!” Robin replied, dodging a powerful swing.

They regrouped quickly, forming a defensive semi-circle. The creature lunged again—only to suddenly stop, sniff the air, and retreat as fast as it had appeared.

Everyone stood panting in the aftermath.

Aqualad spoke first. “We will continue the search. That creature was not acting alone.”

No one responded immediately. The team simply moved again, tension still thick in the air. Nyx lingered behind for a moment, her eyes flickering to KF.

“We need to focus,” Kaldur said, a little sharper than usual.

KF tensed and shot him a glance. “You want focus? Maybe you should’ve told us we had a mole before we got blindsided last night!”

Robin folded his arms beside him. “Kid—”

“No,” KF snapped. “We trusted you. And Miss M almost got killed. But sure, let’s all pretend everything’s peachy now.”

Artemis muttered under her breath, “So much for leadership.”

Nyx stepped between Aqualad and KF, her voice firm but low. “This isn’t helping. We’re on a mission.”

“Oh, are we?” KF turned toward her, brows raised. “Because from where I’m standing, it sure looks like you’re taking his side.”

“I’m taking the team’s side,” she snapped, shadows flickering across her cheeks as she tried to keep her voice level. “And unless you want to start trading blows in the middle of the jungle, I suggest we all remember why we’re here.”

A silence fell over them, thick as the jungle fog.

Robin muttered under his breath, “This is going well.”

Aqualad inhaled slowly. “We continue. Stay alert.”

The group moved deeper into the jungle until a sudden rustle in the trees made everyone freeze. From the darkness, a massive form lunged—a gorilla, but not just any gorilla. This one was wearing battle armour, his eyes intelligent and fierce. Guerilla Gorilla.

“INCOMING!” Robin shouted.

The gorilla roared, slamming into Superboy and knocking him backwards. The team scattered into combat formation. Nyx formed into the shadows, disappearing into the trees. She reappeared behind the gorilla and lashed out with a tendril of shadow, yanking at the creature’s armour to disrupt its movement.

“He’s enhanced!” she called. “Armour tech, maybe Apokoliptian?”

“Or something close,” Robin grunted, flipping up onto a branch and firing a barrage of explosive discs.

Artemis loosed an arrow at the gorilla’s feet. “We sure this isn’t one of Morrow’s side projects?”

Miss Martian lifted the gorilla with her telekinesis, but he fought her power, roaring and smashing through a tree as he landed. Superboy snarled and charged again, fists flying.

“Scatter!” Aqualad ordered. “Divide and flank!”

Kid Flash zipped around the gorilla’s legs, trying to distract him. “I did not sign up for Planet of the Capes! This guy hits like an elephant!”

“That is because Monsieur Mallah is no ordinary gorilla.” A new voice rang from the trees.

The team turned to see a tall figure stepping out—a man in a white lab coat with a cane and eyes that gleamed with cruel intelligence.

“The Brain,” Aqualad whispered.

Robin’s mouth tightened. “Oh, good. Now it’s a party.”

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The Brain stepped out of the shadows like a phantom, calm, composed, and utterly in control. Beside him, Monsieur Mallah beat his fists against his chest with a guttural snarl.

“I must admit,” The Brain said, his thick accent curling around every syllable, “I had not expected children. How very brave of the League, oui?”

“Yeah? Well, what can I say, we’re full of surprises,” Robin quipped, drawing a few smoke pellets from his utility belt.

Nyx reformed from the shadows at Robin’s side, her eyes narrowed. “He’s stalling,” she said, low enough for only him to hear. “Buying time or gathering data. Possibly both.”

“I know,” Robin murmured back. “Watch his cane.”

Aqualad stepped forward. “We are here to stop you, Brain. You will not use this jungle—or these creatures—for your experiments.”

“Ah, mon Capitaine,” The Brain sighed. “So noble. So predictable.” He raised the cane and tapped a button.

BOOM!

A deafening explosion erupted behind the team, another massive gorilla burst through the treeline, this one wielding a tech-enhanced electro-mace. The team split instantly into pairs.

Nyx barely dodged a sweeping strike, vanishing into the gorilla’s shadow and reappearing behind it. “Robin, I need a stun disc, top spine!”

He tossed one without hesitation, trusting her to time it. She caught it with her shadows, in mid-air, and slammed it into the back of the gorilla’s armour, sending a burst of electricity through its system. It faltered, giving Superboy enough time to tackle it.

Meanwhile, Kid Flash zipped through the chaos, circling Mallah with sharp, taunting feints. “Yo, banana breath! Can’t keep up?”

Mallah grunted, swinging his arm, and connecting hard. KF flew backwards, skidding across the ground.

Artemis loosed a shock arrow into Mallah’s exposed flank. “He’s armoured but not invincible!”

Miss Martian hovered above, scanning with her mind. “There are more—underground cages… animals… hurt—experimented on.”

Aqualad looked at her. “Free them. That is our secondary priority.”

But KF had heard none of that. He staggered to his feet, glaring at Aqualad. “We wouldn’t need secondary priorities if you’d warned us about the mole!”

“KF, now is not the time,” Robin hissed from above, dodging a flying piece of debris.

“No, it’s perfect!” He snapped. “Because now we get to clean up someone else’s mess—again!”

“Enough!” Aqualad barked, slamming his water bearers together and creating a shockwave that knocked Mallah back. “I did what I thought was right—for all of you.”

“And you were wrong!” Kid Flash shot back.

Everyone froze a half-second too long, emotions boiling.

“Not the time. Not the place.” Nyx’s voice was like a whisper edged with steel. “We can deal with the trust issues after the murder gorillas are dealt with.”

KF turned on her. “Still taking his side?”

Nyx’s jaw clenched. “I’m taking the side that doesn’t get us killed.”

Robin’s gaze flicked toward her, unreadable. He said nothing but moved to cover her flank.

Aqualad rallied quickly. “Miss Martian, with me—let us free the animals. Artemis, Robin, Kid Flash—contain Mallah. Nyx, Superboy—focus on the second gorilla.”

“Aye aye, captain,” Robin muttered under his breath, voice clipped.

The team split.

Nyx’s shadows tangled with the second gorilla’s limbs like smoke-tentacles, dragging at its feet while Superboy traded blows up front. They made a surprisingly effective duo—blunt force and pinpoint stealth.

She darted in and out of shadows, slashing with shadow-blades at armour joints. The gorilla shrieked in pain and fury. One strike came too close, and she felt its knuckles graze her ribs—but she vanished just in time, reappearing in the darkness of a nearby tree.

“Try not to get killed, Nyx!” Superboy called, half-teasing.

“I’m too annoyed for death right now,” she replied, grinning, eyes narrowing as she reshaped her shadows into a spike and drove it into a weak point on the beast’s thigh.

Behind them, Mallah finally went down under a joint assault from Robin, Artemis, and Wally. Electricity and arrows crackled against the jungle canopy. The Brain, realising the fight was lost, tapped his cane and vanished into smoke with a teleport pulse.

“We’ll meet again, enfants,” echoed his voice. “But you will not like the next lesson.”

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The bioship hummed softly as it soared through the night sky, but inside the cabin, the silence was a thick, stifling fog.

Aqualad sat at the front, his expression unreadable, arms crossed tightly across his chest. The rest of the team was scattered across the cabin—close in proximity but miles apart in feeling.

Nyx sat slightly removed from the others, shadows curling idly around her boots like restless thoughts made tangible. Across from her, Robin slumped beside Wally, who hadn’t said a word since boarding. Artemis sat stiffly beside Miss M, arms folded, jaw tight. Even the Martian, usually the emotional glue of the group, had gone quiet, her eyes downcast.

No jokes. No teasing. No banter.

Only the weight of fractured trust.

Aqualad’s voice finally broke the silence.

“I... understand your anger. And I accept full responsibility for withholding the truth.”

“Good,” KF muttered bitterly, still staring straight ahead. “Someone should.”

Robin shifted slightly. “That’s enough,” he said, though his tone lacked bite. He sounded tired—tired in a way that only betrayal from a teammate could cause.

Nyx leaned forward slightly, eyes flicking to Kaldur’s silhouette. “You were trying to protect us,” she said carefully. “I get that. But if you want us to trust you again, Kaldur... you can’t keep us in the dark. Not when it could get someone killed.”

Aqualad didn’t turn, but his shoulders sagged ever so slightly. “Understood.”

Miss Martian glanced toward him, then down at the small scrap of broken tech in her hands. “The collars,” she said softly. “They were just like the ones at Belle Reve. The inhibitors… they weren’t built for animals.”

Superboy looked up at that, jaw clenched, rubbing his new wolf that he had rescued from the mission. “They were meant for us.”

“For people like us,” Miss M added, voice trembling. “Metas.”

The realisation settled over them like a fresh layer of cold. 

Artemis finally broke the silence, her voice low but sharp, cutting through the tension like an arrow. “I just need to know—why did you keep the mole intel from us?”

Her gaze didn’t waver from the window, arms still folded tightly across her chest. But everyone turned to face Kaldur, even Nyx, who, until then, had remained half-in-shadow near the back, her expression unreadable.

Aqualad didn’t hesitate. “The source of the tip was Sportsmaster.”

Artemis flinched at that, finally turning toward him. “What? You can’t trust him! He’s a criminal. Worse, he’s—” She stopped herself, her jaw tightening.

“I do not trust him,” Aqualad replied calmly, but there was a faint note of regret in his voice. “It seemed likely he was attempting to divide the team with false information. To create discord.”

Robin nodded slowly, arms crossed. “And judging by how this mission went… he almost succeeded.” His tone was dry but pointed. “Still, you had to consider that he might be telling the truth.”

“I did,” Aqualad said. “And as leader, I weighed every possibility. Including the one where a traitor was among us. In that case, alerting the team would have also alerted the mole.”

The air tensed again. Nyx watched Artemis closely—how her fingers dug into the fabric of her sleeve, how she blinked once, slow and hard, like trying to blink something away.

Robin finally broke the quiet. “Hate to say it, but… makes sense.” He didn’t sound happy about it. But it was honest.

Aqualad nodded solemnly. “Still, the damage has been done. If the team no longer has faith in me, I am prepared to step down as leader.”

There was a beat of hesitation—then, unexpectedly, Kid Flash raised his hand.

“All in favour of keeping Aqualad as leader?” he asked, glancing around.

Robin followed, then Miss Martian. Then, Artemis, her hand rose just the same.

Nyx raised hers last but firmly. “We don’t have to agree with every decision to believe in your leadership,” she said. “You’ve always had the team’s safety in mind. That matters.”

Aqualad blinked, surprised. “Thank you, all of you.”

Captain Marvel gave them a thumbs-up from near the cockpit. “Guess that’s settled then.”

Without another word, he drifted toward the hatch and—with a cheerful wave—launched himself out into the night sky.

The bioship remained quiet for a long beat before Miss Martian let out a small laugh. “Did he… fly off without even waiting for us to land?”

“Yup. And hey, check out this new souvenir.” KF grinned as he held up Monsieur Mallah’s beret.

That cracked the tension. Soft chuckles bubbled up from the team, reluctant but genuine.

Even Artemis smiled, if faintly.

Nyx didn’t laugh. But for the first time since the mission began, she let herself relax. Just a little. The shadows around her boots softened, and she leaned back in her seat.

For now, the team was whole again. Still hurting. Still uncertain.

But whole.

And that was something worth fighting for.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Gotham Academy

September 27th – 10:35 EDT

The Modern Political Systems classroom buzzed with ambient noise—soft rustles of pages, the clatter of chairs forming loose semi-circles, and the occasional snort of laughter from Group Four, still haphazardly arranging themselves in the far corner. But at the heart of the room, the storm had already formed.

Groups One and Two had locked into a focused debate, their classmates quietly watched them like orbiting moons drawn to the gravity of high-stakes intellectual warfare.

“Mutual defense coalitions, especially among post-crisis nations, are critical to regional stability,” Dick Grayson said confidently, gesturing with his pen like it was a conductor’s baton. “Without them, you’re inviting opportunistic aggression.”

Arabella didn’t even glance up from her notes. “Stability bought by secrecy and overreach isn’t stability—it’s just silence before collapse.” She passed her tablet to Tomas Valasquez, who nodded as he skimmed her highlighted data.

“Please,” Charlotte Fontaine cut in, cool and dismissive. “We’re talking about regions destabilised by alien incursions and rogue metahuman threats. Transparency doesn’t stop interdimensional warships.”

Barbara Gordon adjusted her glasses slightly, her tone measured but firm. “But it does prevent internal corruption. You want metahuman regulation? Then the oversight process must start with clarity, not classified military experiments.”

“There’s no clarity in chaos,” Dick said, leaning forward. “Sometimes cohesion means making hard calls fast—before a committee can agree on what font to write the report in.”

“That’s a cute line,” Arabella returned, a calm edge in her voice, “but good policy isn’t built on quips. It’s built on principles. You don’t counter existential threats by becoming one.”

Artemis shifted in her seat beside Dick, folding her arms. “But sometimes? You need boots on the ground. You need action. Coalition forces provide that. Waiting for a transparent resolution process isn’t a luxury people have when they’re under attack.”

Anne-Marie raised a brow. “And that’s how we end up justifying drone strikes and metahuman surveillance squads. The illusion of safety doesn't excuse authoritarian tactics.”

The tension tightened, threading through the room. Barbara glanced sideways at Arabella, then back to the rest of the room. “Our group’s position is simple. You can’t have accountability without visibility. Defence without oversight leads to exactly the kind of unchecked power the League is meant to prevent.”

“Are we debating diplomacy,” Dick asked with an easy, too-perfect smile, “or are we venting about metahuman operations?”

He didn’t raise his voice, but his words landed like a stone dropped in still water.

Arabella’s lips curled into a polite, unreadable smile. “Isn’t that the point of diplomacy? Knowing when one bleeds into the other?” She turned a page in her notes, barely glancing up. “Your group’s idea of ‘cohesion’ sounds suspiciously like centralised control. But maybe that’s just your style.”

Dick leaned back slightly in his chair, still smiling. “Well, someone has to keep things from falling apart. Transparency is great—until it turns a mission into a press conference.”

Artemis, beside him, didn’t wait for an opening. “Let’s not pretend the world plays fair. When things go sideways, it’s the coalitions that get people out alive, not committees debating protocol.”

Arabella tilted her head ever so slightly. “And yet, when those coalitions aren’t answerable to anyone, they become the very threat they’re meant to stop.”

The comment wasn’t even directed at Artemis, but it slid under her skin like a scalpel. Artemis met Arabella’s gaze with narrowed eyes, her posture sharpening. “You want accountability? Great. But you can’t have oversight if everyone’s already dead.”

Silence crept in around the edges until Felix Harper gave a short laugh, cutting the tension. “Personally, I’d rather be alive and cleaning up a political mess than vaporised because we couldn’t agree on the ethics of firing back.”

“False equivalency,” Tomas said coolly from Arabella’s side, never raising his voice. “No one here is advocating inaction. We’re arguing for strategic responsibility. That’s not the same as inaction.”

Charlotte folded her arms, her gaze steady. “And we’re saying responsibility doesn’t matter if you’re too slow to act. Cities fall while committees stall.”

Barbara spoke up—her voice level but laced with steel. “And what happens when those same cities fall because there was no oversight in place? Because the people meant to protect them weren’t being watched closely enough?”

Her tone wasn’t angry, but something about it crackled—subtle, precise, and deeply measured. She passed a glance to Arabella, a quick flicker of mutual understanding exchanged without words.

Arabella didn’t nod, didn’t acknowledge it directly, but when she spoke again, her words were sharper.

“You don’t earn public trust through unilateral action and classified reports,” she said, eyes scanning the class. “You earn it by making the hard choices in the light, not the shadows.”

Dick’s mouth twitched. “Spoken like someone who’s never actually had to make a hard call in real time.”

Arabella’s gaze flicked to him—cool, unreadable. “I could say the same to you.”

The tension spiked again, but Artemis broke it this time. “Okay, but this isn’t about personal philosophy, is it?” She looked between both groups. “It’s about whether we can build something fast and fair. Right now, your side sounds like it wants perfect paperwork while the world burns.”

Anne-Marie scoffed. “And yours sounds like it wants the authority to act without question. That’s not defence—that’s a power grab.”

Dr. Vos remained silent, watching the crossfire with her arms folded and a faint furrow between her brows. Her tablet glowed softly in her hand as she took another note but said nothing.

The debate had crescendoed into something more than academic—an arena of subtext and sharpened intellects. Arabella and Dick circled each other with deliberate grace, every word poised with double meaning. Barbara anchored her side, not only echoing Arabella but guiding her approach. Tomas remained steady, quiet, but resolute. Anne-Marie delivered the verbal jabs like clockwork.

And Artemis—Artemis was adapting. She wasn’t used to this kind of verbal sparring, but she was quick, growing more comfortable by the second. Facing Arabella wasn’t like arguing with, say, Robin or Wally—it wasn’t emotional. It was strategic, almost surgical. She didn’t like that she couldn’t get a read on her. But she respected it.

And somewhere in Arabella’s voice—beneath the calm and the confidence—there was something else. Not arrogance. Something more like urgency. Something real.

“Debate,” Dr. Vos said at last, voice crisp, “isn’t about volume. It’s about discernment. Well done, Groups One and Two. That’s the standard I expect. Group Three and Four—take the floor.”

Chairs shifted, murmurs returned, and the spell broke—but not completely. Arabella passed her tablet back to Barbara with a quiet word. Barbara nodded, cool and composed, and tucked it into her bag. Dick stretched, the corner of his mouth still twitching like he hadn’t quite dropped the game.

Artemis glanced at him—at Dick, still leaning back in his chair with that maddening half-smile like the whole thing had been a game—and then at Arabella, all calm elegance and razor-sharp edges beneath designer polish. Finally, her eyes landed on Barbara, who hadn’t raised her voice once but still managed to land every point like a well-placed arrow.

It was foreign.

It wasn’t just the way they debated—it was the way they moved around each other. The timing, the precision, and the flickers of glances were exchanged like quiet signals. Artemis couldn’t name it, but she felt it. The way Arabella had anticipated Dick’s angle. The way Barbara had known exactly when to step in—not for dominance, but to shift the rhythm. The way Dick looked almost like he enjoyed getting pushed.

Artemis didn’t know what it was between them. But it wasn’t just academics. It wasn’t just politics.

She sat straighter, suddenly aware that she was in a room where the real stakes were invisible. Where every word had weight, and every silence was a strategy. Where people like Arabella and Dick and Barbara didn’t just argue—they played. They maneuvered. And Artemis was realising, fast, that she'd stepped into something she hadn't been briefed for.

Because this wasn’t just a class exercise.

And even if no one said it out loud, she could feel it in her bones: something crackled between them, thick and coiled beneath every polished word. History, secrets, maybe even grudges. Things unspoken that moved just under the surface, like shadows under glass.

Dr. Vos tapped her stylus again, expression neutral.

The game was shifting.

And the bell hadn’t even rung yet.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

“Miss Luthor, Mr. Grayson. A word.”

Dr. Vos’s voice cut through the room just as chairs scraped back and students filtered out. Artemis glanced over her shoulder, her gaze lingering on the two summoned names before Charlotte nudged her, and she followed her and Anne-Marie out the door, questions buzzing behind her eyes.

Arabella and Dick both paused, exchanging a sidelong glance that was unreadable, then turned back to face the tall, composed figure of their teacher.

“That was excellent work,” Dr. Vos said, tone clipped but not unkind. “Just what I expect from students who carry such weighty last names.”

Neither Arabella nor Dick responded, but there was the faintest shift in their postures—like the praise landed somewhere between a compliment and a burden.

“Your futures,” she continued, “as politicians… or CEOS like your parents, are bright. Maintain this focus and ambition, and I’m certain you’ll both excel.”

She gave them a crisp nod of dismissal.

Arabella offered a polite smile, nothing more, and slipped out the door in a swirl of quiet composure.

Dick turned to follow—but paused when Dr. Vos’s voice called out again.

“And Mr. Grayson?”

He turned back, eyebrows raised, a half-smirk already forming.

Dr. Vos didn’t smile.

“Tone it down with whatever flirting game you think you’re playing with Arabella. I prefer my students focused. Save the theatrics for after hours.”

Dick blinked, then chuckled softly. “Yes, ma’am.”

As he stepped into the hallway, the grin lingered. Behind him, the classroom door clicked shut.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The marble tiles echoed with the low murmur of water running from the tap as Artemis leaned against the sink, arms crossed, still frowning slightly. Charlotte applied a fresh coat of lip gloss in the mirror while Anne-Marie perched on the granite ledge beneath the high window, legs crossed at the ankle, scrolling through her phone with casual elegance.

Arabella was retying her ponytail with effortless precision when Artemis finally spoke.

“So,” she said, tone casual—too casual. “What was that about? Vos keeping you and Grayson back?”

Charlotte smirked. “Artemis, you know better than to poke into the elite’s secrets,” her tone teasing.

Arabella tilted her head slightly, meeting Artemis’s eyes in the mirror. “Nothing scandalous,” she said evenly. “She gave us the usual ‘children of legacy’ pep talk. Maintain focus. Don’t embarrass your ancestors, or they will place an ancient blood curse on you.”

“Riiight,” Artemis muttered, not buying the simplicity but unsure how far she could push.

Anne-Marie tucked her phone away and stretched. “Ugh, can we not talk about school for five minutes? You know I haven’t picked a second dress for the gala tomorrow.”

“You mean Lex Luthor’s birthday gala?” Charlotte asked with a sly grin as she dabbed on lip balm, the cap snapping closed with flair. “Let’s not pretend, Anne-Marie. You’re just piggybacking off the real headline.”

“And he’s letting me,” Anne-Marie declared proudly, flipping her ringlets like it was her birthright. “Arabella, thank you again for letting me absorb a few rays of billionaire limelight. I’ve already planned like, basically three outfit changes.”

Artemis blinked, trying to follow the conversation. Everyone at Gotham Academy had a name, but this was something else. Anne-Marie’s family owned half the East End in rental properties and were so old money they made history books. Charlotte’s father ran a tech conglomerate—not exactly Wayne level, but not far off—and her mother was a household name, a former starlet turned award-winning film actress.

And then there was Arabella. Lex Luthor’s daughter. Gotham’s equivalent of royalty, complete with a penthouse throne.

Arabella gave a faint, knowing smile. “Anything to keep you from whining through September.”

That earned a scoff from Anne-Marie, who didn’t deny it.

“Wait,” Artemis cut in, brows raised. “The gala’s at your house?”

“Penthouse suite,” Charlotte answered, not even glancing up as she checked her reflection. “Top floor of the Luthor building. Private orchestra, skyline view, and champagne, we’re definitely not allowed to drink—officially.”

“It’s not just a party,” Anne-Marie added, already tapping something into her calendar. “It’s the social event of the fall, if you ignore Halloween. You’re coming, right?”

Artemis hesitated. “I don’t usually… do galas.”

“Well, you do now,” Anne-Marie said brightly. “Black tie. Velvet or satin. Maybe something dark green—you’ve got the cheekbones for it.”

“I—uh—”

“Charlotte will help too,” Anne-Marie waved off her protest, already planning for her. “We live for this kind of makeover challenge.”

Charlotte gave a lazy smile, already envisioning the options. “Something fierce. Structured. Definitely not pink.”

Artemis looked between them, trying not to feel like an imposter in a language she hadn’t learned. But Arabella just tilted her head, studying her with that same quiet precision she'd used in the debate room.

“You’ll fit in,” Arabella said, voice low but clear. “Trust me.”

It shouldn’t have reassured Artemis, but it did.

“Speaking of birthdays,” Charlotte pivoted, tossing her lip balm into her bag. “Yours passed us by over the summer. July 19th, stuck with Dick’s dad. Oh, right, did you get my presents?” Artemis’s eyebrows raised. Presents? Plural?

“Mhm,” Arabella hummed.

“What’d you even do?” Anne-Marie asked, twirling her phone in one hand. “You were locked up in that Wayne Industries internship, weren’t you? Sounds miserable. Were you just copying memos and reading manuals or what?”

Arabella’s hands paused for a heartbeat as she adjusted the clasp on her watch. It was barely perceptible—but Artemis saw it. Like a glitch in a system otherwise programmed to perfection.

“It was… fine,” Arabella said after a beat, her voice air-light. “A lot of R&D observation. Corporate policy. Data regulation.”

“So, yes. Miserable,” Anne-Marie declared.

“I celebrated with my father the weekend after,” Arabella added smoothly. “Quiet dinner. Nothing extravagant.”

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “Lex Luthor doing quiet? That’s rich.”

Arabella smiled faintly, her eyes unreadable in the mirror. “He makes exceptions. When I ask nicely.”

Anne-Marie let out a long sigh. “Still sounds like you missed out. I told you to ditch and come to my midsummer yacht party. There were fireworks. And boys. One of them brought a jet ski. It was chaos.”

Arabella’s smile turned dry. “Tragic. But I had my own kind of adventure. Gotham has its charms… even in July.”

The way she said it made Artemis pause. She’d meant to ask something else—something small, maybe even teasing—but the moment passed. Because again, it was there: that same something just beneath Arabella’s polished surface. Not arrogance. Not boredom. Urgency.

Like she was holding too much inside, skin that was stitched too tightly. The bell rang before Artemis could say more.

Charlotte pushed off the counter and grabbed her tote. “Let’s go. Econ’s next, and if Delaney brings up ‘fiscal scaffolding’ again, I might set something on fire.”

Anne-Marie laughed, looping her arm through Charlotte’s as they headed toward the door. Arabella trailed a step behind, but before she left, she turned to Artemis.

“You’re welcome to come tomorrow,” she said quietly. “Consider it an initiation.”

Artemis blinked. “Initiation into what?”

Arabella didn’t answer. She just offered a thin, unreadable smile—and walked out with the grace of someone who’d been born knowing how to own a room. Artemis remained by the mirror a moment longer, staring at her own reflection.

What the hell was she getting pulled into?

Chapter Text

Gotham Academy

September 27th – 12:10 EDT

The courtyard buzzed with chatter, trays clinking and leaves rustling in the breeze. Dick dropped into the seat across from Barbara with his usual effortless flair, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“You’ll never guess where I’m being dragged tomorrow night,” he said, popping open a bottle of juice and flashing a grin.

Barbara barely looked up from her tablet. “Lex Luthor’s birthday gala. September 28th. You whined about it all last week, at the cave, remember?”

Dick pulled a face. “Okay, fair. But still. Every year.”

Barbara arched a brow. “You’re fourteen, Dick, not eighty.”

“Fourteen and three-quarters,” he corrected, pointing at her with his straw. “Turning fifteen in December, thank you very much.”

She smirked. “And somehow still ageing faster than you’re maturing.”

He ignored the jab, leaning forward with a dramatic sigh. “Bruce is invited every year, and obviously , I get tagged along. It's... a lot. Politics, CEOS, and Gotham elites flexing their wallets. But the second we do the whole ‘grin and handshake’ circuit, Arabella usually sneaks off with Charlotte, Anne-Marie, Frederick, and I follow.”

Barbara smiled faintly. “Ah, yes. The annual rooftop rebellion. You escaping adult hell with our favourite heiress and her little court.”

“She hates it even more than I do,” Dick said, poking at his food. “You can tell. That smile she wears when she’s shaking hands? It’s all teeth. She clocks every senator’s last scandal while pretending she’s only thinking about her dress. I mean, she’s always like that at galas, always has been.”

Barbara finally looked up from her tablet, eyes curious. “You really think she doesn’t know?”

Dick hesitated, just for a second. “That her dad’s one of the biggest threats in the country? No. But if she does know anything real, she’s buried it. Deep. Bruce thinks she’s insulated—completely shut out of all the shady stuff. Just the perfect high-society daughter. Private schools, charity appearances, and internships at Wayne Enterprises to keep up appearances. We ruled out the possibility of her knowing years ago.”

Barbara gave him a look, arch and sceptical. “And you believe that?”

He leaned back, letting out a breath. “She’s… polished. Yeah. But not fake. Not in the way most of them are. There’s something real underneath. She plays the game, but she’s not part of it.”

Barbara tilted her head, watching him. “So? Still think she’s just another spoiled rich kid?”

Dick didn’t answer right away. His fingers tapped against his juice bottle, thoughtful. Then, finally:

“No, Babs. She’s not like them. Not really. I mean, you know how she is.”

Barbara looked at him for a minute but didn’t push. Instead, she just went back to scrolling on her phone, though the smallest smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Barbara sat back and studied him, fingers curled lightly on her water bottle. “Okay,” she said casually, “so what about Nyx?”

That made him blink. He looked up. “What about her?”

“You never talk about her,” Barbara said. “Not really. You’ve mentioned the missions, sure, but not her. And I know something’s up. You’re not exactly subtle.”

Dick tapped the cap of his bottle with his thumb, thinking.

“She’s… complicated,” he finally said. “She’s smart, not really quiet anymore, always observing. It’s like she’s running a hundred calculations in her head and only saying the ones that matter.”

Barbara nodded. “Sounds useful.”

“Yeah, but it’s more than that,” Dick said. “She’s not just holding back—she won’t let anyone in. Except maybe Artemis and, potentially, M’Gann. And even that feels… careful.”

Barbara leaned in. “So you don’t trust her?”

“I do, but I don’t know if I can properly get comfortable yet,” he admitted. “She doesn’t play by the same rules. She moves in shadows like they belong to her. And when she fights, it’s not just about the mission—it’s like it’s personal.”

Barbara was quiet for a second.

“She’s probably got her reasons,” she said. “Maybe the kind you’d recognise if you stopped treating her like a puzzle and started treating her like a person.”

Dick looked at her, caught off guard by the gentle honesty.

Barbara smiled, softer now. “Give it time, Grayson. You’re not the only one figuring out the dynamics of the team.”

The bell rang before he could respond. Barbara stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

“And try not to brood on the rooftop all night tomorrow,” she added as she turned away. “You’re not the only mysterious one at the party now that Artemis might be going.”

Dick sat there for a moment, watching her go, his smirk slower this time—thoughtful, edged with something unspoken.

He picked up his tray and headed to class, already dreading the orchestra and champagne flutes—but not entirely sure why the gala didn’t feel quite the same this year.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Gotham Academy’s campus buzzed with its usual polished energy, but Thursdays carried a different rhythm. Once a week, regular classes paused for a dedicated extracurricular block—a tradition as old as the school itself. Students scattered across the grounds: fencing in the gymnasium, archery out on the range, drama in the amphitheatre, robotics in the lab. It was the academy’s way of maintaining its image as the city’s most well-rounded elite institution.

In the gym, the sharp sound of blade against blade rang out in a steady tempo.

Arabella moved with the focus of a practiced predator, striking clean and fast. She disarmed her opponent with a twist of her wrist, the final point landing squarely. The judge called the match. Arabella removed her mask, smiling, offering her opponent a hand up with cool grace.

“Brutal,” a familiar voice called out.

Arabella turned, mask tucked under one arm. Dick Grayson leaned against the doorway, all casual charm, like he hadn’t been watching the last three points with wide-eyed admiration.

She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re slumming it in fencing now.”

He shrugged. “My extracurricular teacher bailed last minute. So I wandered and, lucky me, caught the Arabella Luthor highlight reel in real time.”

“Bold of you to assume I perform on cue.”

“Bold of you to act like that wasn’t surgical murder. I’m pretty sure I saw your opponent’s soul leave their body for a second.”

Arabella gave him a faint, amused smile. “That sounds suspiciously like flattery, Grayson.”

“Only if it’s not true, Luthor. But it is. You're terrifying.” 

Before she could fire back, the double doors swung open again. Anne-Marie swept into the gym with Charlotte and Artemis in tow, all three still wearing archery gear, quivers slung across their backs like accessories.

“There you are,” Anne-Marie said, spotting Arabella. “Please tell me you didn’t body your partner again.”

“She did,” Dick said cheerfully. “With style.”

Charlotte tilted her head, smirking. “You two are always in your own little world.”

Anne-Marie looped her arm through Arabella’s like it was a competitive sport, tugging her and the others just out of Dick’s earshot. “What is going on here? Secret fencing club romance? Some kind of legacy alliance? Because I know something’s going on.”

Artemis glanced over, frowning. “Wait—I thought you had a crush on Dick.”

Anne-Marie rolled her eyes with a laugh. “I do . He’s the human equivalent of a smirking Greek statue. But that’s more an aesthetic obsession than a functional crush. I’m a girl's girl. I flirt, but I don’t steal–”

“Yeah, because there’s nothing to steal, Dick and I are friends.” Arabella huffed.

“Exactly,” Charlotte agreed, ignoring Arabella’s fact—or, maybe, statement. “She’s delusional but loyal.”

“I heard that,” Anne-Marie said sweetly.

Artemis looked between Dick and Arabella again, narrowing her eyes. “Okay, but seriously. Is something going on?”

Arabella slung her fencing bag over her shoulder. “Alright, if there was, I certainly wouldn’t tell you lot,” She teased, feeding into their delusions.

Charlotte gasped. “See? Suspicious.”

The four of them swept out of the gym together, their footsteps echoing on the polished floors, laughter trailing behind. Gotham Academy’s bell tower chimed faintly in the distance, marking the end of the period.

Dick lingered a moment, watching the girls go. His gaze paused on Arabella as she turned the corner—graceful, aloof, and always just a little too hard to read.

He shook his head with a small smile and headed back toward the east wing.

Some puzzles were more fun when left unsolved.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Artemis didn’t rush toward the Zeta Tube just beyond the Academy’s gates. Her strides were steady, earbuds in, though no music played. The day clung to her like the late September heat, but she wasn’t tired. Just thoughtful.

She never expected to adapt so quickly to Gotham Academy—never expected to feel anything but out of place in tailored uniforms and manicured courtyards. And yet... she was surviving. No, more than that. She was learning how to navigate it. Even fit in. Sort of.

The Zeta Tube flared around her in a familiar wash of blue light.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Mount Justice

September 27th – 15:20 EDT

[Recognised: Artemis, B-06.]

The Zeta Tube pulsed to life, humming softly as Artemis stepped through into Mount Justice. The familiar stillness wrapped around her like a sigh—the quiet between missions, the rare peace she never found in the city. She dropped her bag at the base of the tube and headed toward the kitchen, half-expecting it to be empty. It wasn’t.

Nyx stood at the counter, dressed in her signature black. Steam curled up from the mug in her hands. She didn’t turn around, just said casually, “You’re back late.”

Artemis raised an eyebrow. “Look who finally remembered this place has beds.”

Nyx glanced over, a crooked smirk playing on her lips. “Mount Justice has beds? Huh. I thought it was just where we met up to get yelled at.”

Artemis snorted, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. “You’ve barely been around this week. What—brooding in a cave somewhere more private?”

Nyx took a sip from her mug, unbothered. “Something like that.”

Before Artemis could push for more, M’gann floated in, cookie in hand, eyes lighting up at the sight of them both. “Finally! I’ve been dying for this update.”

Artemis rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “You people act like I was walking into enemy territory.”

“You kinda were,” M’gann said, perching on a stool. “Gotham Academy? Fancy uniforms, legacy admissions, charity balls?”

Artemis laughed. “Okay, yeah, I was ready to hate it. But... I don’t.”

Nyx arched a brow. “No way.”

“No, seriously.” Artemis leaned against the counter. “I’ve actually started to like it. The place is still full of trust fund drama, but it’s not all bad. Some of the people there are actually pretty cool.”

M’gann leaned forward, grinning. “Like who?”

Artemis hesitated, then shrugged. “Arabella Luthor.”

Nyx didn’t move, but there was a barely-there flicker in her expression.

“Like…Lex Luthor’s daughter?” M’gann asked, blinking. “That Arabella?”

“Yep. I know, I know,” Artemis said quickly. “I thought she’d be an absolute nightmare. Remember when I showed you her on the school site before classes started?”

Nyx let out a soft chuckle. “‘Literal poster child of Gotham royalty. Oh, and that she’s probably never even seen a public bus?” I believe you said.”

“Because she was, and I don’t think she has!” Artemis grinned, warming to the memory. “She was on, like, half the Gotham Academy promotional material. Perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect life. I said if I saw her on a hallway poster, I might walk back out the door.” Artemis groaned, remembering. “Ugh, yeah. On the first day, I saw her face on every other wall and said something like, ‘If she’s anything like the others—snobby, stuck-up, entitled—I’m screwed.’”

Nyx hid a smile behind her cup.

“She heard me,” Artemis added flatly.

M’gann gasped. “No!”

“Oh yeah,” Artemis said. “She literally turned to the poster of herself on the wall and went, ‘I know, right?’ And I turned around, ready to double down—and just froze. Because, of course, it was her. In the flesh. Arabella Luthor.”

Nyx burst out laughing, unable to contain herself. She readjusted her black glasses as she attempted to collect herself.

“And then, she held out her hand and said, ‘The snooty, snobby Gotham princess poster girl. Arabella Luthor. And you are?’” Artemis mimicked her, then grinned. “I nearly died.”

“What did you say?” M’gann laughed.

“I told her I was Crock—I mean, Artemis Crock,” Artemis said with a wince. “Then I apologised for judging her based on some student liaison’s horror stories.”

“So now what?” M’gann asked, smiling. “You’re besties?”

Artemis rolled her eyes, but there wasn’t any real protest behind it. She leaned back against the counter, her fingers drumming lightly against her water bottle. “I mean… not besties. But she’s cool. Like, actually cool.” Artemis admitted, a little sheepish, “I was totally wrong. I thought she’d be this stuck-up, entitled, country club robot with a perfume line and zero brain cells. You know—every stereotype in the book.”

M’gann nodded sympathetically. “Well, I mean… her posters are everywhere.”

“Right?” Artemis gestured with a half-smile. “I saw her face ten times before I even found my locker. I was all geared up for war. Then she just—completely disarmed me.” She looked down for a moment like she was trying to figure out how to explain it. “Arabella’s sharp. Like, sharp. She listens more than she talks, but when she does speak, it’s always the most insightful or weirdly specific thing anyone could say. She’s super composed, but not in that fake-perfect way—it’s like she’s balancing ten spinning plates and somehow making it look easy.”

“Sounds intimidating,” M’Gann said, wide-eyed.

“It is, kinda,” Artemis admitted, then grinned. “But also kind of awesome. She’s funny in this dry, deadpan way that takes you a second to catch. Like when she caught me trash-talking her to her own face and just rolled with it ? Most rich girls would’ve gone full Regina George. But no, she laughed.”

Nyx stirred her tea, watching her. “So she’s not at all what we thought.”

“Not even close,” Artemis said. “She’s the kind of person who’ll casually reference Greek philosophers in one sentence and then compliment your worn-out sneakers in the next. She’s warm but guarded. Friendly, but not fake. I honestly think she’s just… playing the part everyone expects of her because it’s easier than explaining who she really is.”

M’gann tilted her head. “That sounds kind of lonely.”

“Yeah,” Artemis said, more quietly. “It does.”

There was a pause.

“I did say she might not be all bad.” Nyx raised her eyebrows and gave Artemis a look that read ‘I told you so.’

“And she’s… talented,” Artemis added, brightening a little. “Like, she fences—and she’s actually really good. Not just ‘I took lessons for appearances’ good, but competitive. Focused.”

M’gann nodded thoughtfully. “You think she knows? About her dad?”

Artemis shrugged. “Honestly? I don’t think so. She seems... insulated. Like, rich-girl shielded. But not in a clueless way. More like—she sees a lot, just doesn’t always say it.”

Nyx stirred her tea slowly. “That tracks.”

“And then there’s Charlotte Fontaine,” Artemis went on. “You’d think she’d be a total diva—old money, drama club lead—but she’s actually chill. A little dramatic, sure, but she’s hilarious. Plus, we both do archery for extracurriculars, so she’s already earned points there.”

“I like her already,” M’gann said brightly.

“And Anne-Marie Fairchild…” Artemis gave a helpless laugh. “Terrifying. Like ice-cold perfection on the outside. But underneath? Total gossip gremlin. Lives for the tea. Also, pretty sure she’s the one holding the entire social structure of the school together by sheer force of will.”

Nyx smiled, her mug cradled between her hands. “Sounds like you found your crew. But don’t forget, M’Gann and I were here first.”

Artemis snorted. “Oh, please, like I could forget. You two are basically my emotional support weirdos.”

“Hey!” M’gann laughed, tossing a cookie crumb at her.

Artemis grinned and caught it in midair. “See? Reflexes trained by friendship and trauma.”

Nyx gave a mock-sigh. “We just raise them so well.”

“I mean, I didn’t expect to– to have actual friends there. But yeah. It’s… better than I thought it’d be.”

M’gann beamed. “I’m so happy for you!”

“Well, don’t get too happy,” Artemis added dryly. “I got invited to a gala tomorrow night. Lex Luthor’s birthday bash. Arabella asked me to go.”

“Oh my gosh, that’s so exciting,” M’gann gasped.

Nyx’s lips quirked. “Peak Gotham elite. You have to go.”

Artemis groaned but pulled out her phone anyway. “I was gonna text her to say no...” She paused, thumb hovering over the screen, then turned it toward them with an incredulous laugh. “Okay, but check out this contact list,” she said. “Arabella Luthor. Charlotte Fontaine. Anne-Marie Fairchild. Dick Grayson. Like—if you had even one of these names, you'd basically be a social networking god.”

M’gann peered at the screen. “Wait. Dick Grayson? He’s in the Gotham Times, like, constantly. He’s so cute.”

Artemis made a face. “He’s something, alright.” She rolled her eyes as she pulled out her phone again and quickly typed out a confirmation message to Arabella: “ Count me in. I’ll see you at the gala.”

Nyx sipped her tea in silence as she felt a slight buzz in her pocket, almost as if she had just received a text, her expression unreadable.

“Anyway,” M’gann said, clearly enjoying the vibe, “speaking of cute—Superboy’s been around.”

Artemis raised a brow. “Oh?”

M’gann tried to play it cool. “Just helping with Wolf and the Sphere. We’ve been talking. It’s not serious… yet.”

“Uh-huh,” Artemis smirked.

M’gann giggled, nibbling her cookie.

For a second, everything felt simple. The three of them, complicated, closed-off, slowly unwinding into each other. Secrets still hung in the room, unspoken but understood. But right now? They didn’t matter. What mattered was the soft laughter, the clink of tea mugs, and the impossible sense that maybe, just maybe, they were building something less like a friendship and more like a sisterhood.

“Heyyy, ladies—whatcha doing?” Wally’s voice carried in from the hallway as he strolled into the kitchen, Kaldur a step behind him.

Nyx tilted her head and smirked. “Plotting world domination. You’re just in time.”

Wally raised a brow, grinning. “Just like I said, ‘tall, tan, gorgeous, presumably deadly.’ Anyways, do I get a cool villain name or…?”

“Nope,” Artemis said, popping the ‘p.’ “You’re the first one we overthrow.”

“Ouch.” Wally clutched his chest in mock betrayal. “Ruthless. You’ve been hanging out with her too much.” He nodded toward Nyx, who simply sipped her tea with a content shrug.

Kaldur gave a small shake of his head, clearly amused. “I take it Gotham Academy hasn’t broken you yet.”

“Surprisingly, no,” Artemis replied. “I’ve got a crew. Real people. Not just… walking wallets and fake smiles.”

“Oh,” Nyx added cheerfully, “and she’s going to a high-society gala tomorrow night hosted by none other than Lex Luthor.”

Wally blinked. “Wait, what? The evil Lex Luthor?”

Artemis pulled her phone back out, flashing her contact list again with a smirk. “Tell me I don’t have the most ridiculous contact list you’ve ever seen.”

“Dick Grayson, Anne-Marie Fairchild, Charlotte Fontaine, Arabella Luthor…” Wally read aloud. “Dude. You’re like an honorary Gotham girl. Are you building an army?”

“No,” Artemis said, deadpan. “Just accidentally infiltrating the Gotham elite.”

M’gann laughed as she hovered near the counter. “We told her she has to go. It’s, like, the full Gotham experience.”

Kaldur glanced at Artemis with a rare smile. “You should. It is important to understand all aspects of a society—even the ones with champagne and string quartets.”

Nyx leaned against the counter, swirling her mug. “Besides, I need someone to give me all the awkward party gossip afterwards. Live vicariously, you know.”

Artemis rolled her eyes, but there was a real grin tugging at her lips. “Fine. But if I end up accidentally mingling with a senator or stepping on some rich guy’s shoe, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal,” Nyx said brightly, raising her mug in salute.

Wally gave her a look. “You’re way too chipper today. What happened to the whole dark-and-mysterious act from day one?”

Nyx sipped her tea, deadpan. “Took a personal day. Even gloom has PTO.”

M’gann burst out laughing.

“Guess I missed the memo,” Artemis added with a smirk. “Can I file for emotional leave next mission?”

“Only if you submit it in triplicate,” Nyx said, raising her mug like a toast.

For a moment, the kitchen buzzed, banter bouncing off tile, warmth tucked beneath sarcasm. Artemis glanced around and, despite herself, smiled.

She hadn’t expected this, whatever this was. But somehow, it worked. A weird, messy, occasionally infuriating family that didn’t feel so bad to come back to.

“Wait—where’s Robin?” Nyx asked, casually scanning the room as she took another sip from her mug.

The question was offhand enough, but Kaldur didn’t miss the way Wally’s eyebrows twitched or how Artemis suddenly found something fascinating on her phone screen.

Kaldur turned to look at Nyx, his expression calm as always, though behind it, his mind was already turning. He had noticed the strange tension between her and Robin weeks ago—sharp glances exchanged in briefings, words that danced around genuine questions, and that night when Nyx had been wearing Robin’s jacket without comment or explanation. No one had said anything, but Kaldur saw things. He had to, as team leader. Patterns, energies, things left unsaid. Now, her tone was light, too light. Not concerned, just curious, like someone asking about the weather. But there was something else there, too. A flicker of something he couldn’t quite place.

“He’s… checking in with Batman,” Kaldur answered evenly, his gaze resting on her for a second longer than necessary. “They had a private debrief.”

“Of course they did,” Nyx muttered into her mug, the corner of her mouth quirking—not quite a smirk, not quite annoyance.

Wally, ever the chaos conduit, looked between them. “Okay, why do I feel like there’s some dramatic tension I missed? Did you two fight over who gets to brood in the shadows first or something?”

Nyx shot him a flat look. “Please. I win that by default.”

M’gann giggled behind her hand. Kaldur smiled faintly but said nothing more. Whatever was happening between Nyx and Robin, it was their business—for now. But he’d keep an eye on it. The team didn’t need any more secrets simmering beneath the surface. 

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Wayne Manor

September 27th – 15:42 EDT

Dick descended the stairs into the Batcave, tugging off his tie mid-step.

“Long day?” Bruce asked without turning from the monitor.

“Mock committee meeting,” Dick replied, dropping the tie over a chair. “Felix wouldn’t stop quoting political philosophers. Charlotte nearly threw a folder at him. So yeah—Gotham Academy’s elite at their finest.”

Bruce said nothing, scrolling through security intel. But Dick caught the faint flicker of a headline on one of the screens: LEXCORP GALA – PRIVATE GUEST LIST SEALED.

Dick arched a brow. “You looking into the gala tomorrow night?”

Bruce nodded. “Luthor’s hosting more than just a birthday party.”

“I figured.” Dick stepped closer. “You know, Arabella invited Artemis?”

Bruce’s gaze flicked to him. “Personally?”

“Yeah.” Dick leaned on the edge of the console. “It surprised me at first, but… honestly? It checks out.”

Bruce glanced at him, waiting.

“I mean, Arabella’s not what people expect,” Dick said. “Everyone assumes she’s cold or stuck-up because of the name, the penthouse, the gala invites. But she’s—she’s actually super down-to-earth. You know, funny. Way more self-aware than anyone gives her credit for.”

Bruce didn’t look surprised. “I’m aware. Almost as if you guys are two sides of the same coin.”

“Yeah, well…” Dick shrugged. “She’s good at what she does. She’s got this whole charm armour thing going, but it’s not fake. Just... curated.”

“She invited Artemis for a reason,” Bruce said calmly. “She doesn’t extend those invitations lightly.”

Dick smiled faintly. “You know, I think Artemis really likes her. They’ve been hanging out together. Actually bonding.”

Bruce returned to the screen. “That’s good. She could use people she trusts.”

“So… are you going?

“I was invited, of course,” Bruce said evenly, “but I declined.”

Dick smirked. “Let me guess—you’re sending the charming adopted son in your place to smile and look disarmingly harmless?”

Bruce’s mouth twitched, which, from him, was practically a laugh. “Something like that.”

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Luthor Penthouse

September 27th – 17:57 EDT

She had returned home. The setting sun filtered into the penthouse in gold and rose, throwing soft light across Arabella’s room. She stood at her window, twisting the ends of her hair absentmindedly as her phone buzzed on the table behind her.

A new message from Dick lit up the screen.

Grayson: “Don’t cause too much chaos tomorrow”

She smiled without thinking, her thumbs already moving.

Arabella: “ no promises. i’m charming, not tame.”

The sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway, and a few seconds later, Lex’s voice followed.

“You’re home before six,” he said from the doorway, amused.

Arabella didn’t turn around yet. “Yeah, Father, the others at my fencing association aren’t as good as they used to be.”

Lex chuckled faintly, stepping further into the room. “I assume you're prepared for tomorrow night?”

Arabella turned then, crossing her arms loosely. “The dress is steamed. The shoes are terribly uncomfortable but expensive.” She paused for a moment. “My new friend Artemis confirmed she’s coming.”

Lex gave a curious tilt of his head. “The state-archer girl.”

“Mhm,” she said, walking over to her vanity to pick up a pair of earrings she hadn’t decided on yet. “She’s smart. Direct. Doesn’t flinch when people whisper Luthor behind her back.”

Lex studied her. “And the others? Anyone else I should be aware of attending?”

Arabella paused, pretending to inspect one of the earrings closely. “It’s a private event, not a circus. Besides, most of the people attending, on my end, are your usual suspects. Charlotte, Anne-Marie, Frederick, Dick, oh and sharks in tuxedos.”

“That includes me, I hope,” he said dryly.

Arabella gave a practised soft smile, something fond but very carefully measured. “You wear it better than most.”

Lex stepped closer, resting a hand on the back of the velvet chair. “I’ve seen the photos, you know. You and Dick.”

Arabella didn’t flinch, but she did raise an eyebrow. “And?”

“He’s… well-bred,” Lex said carefully. “I just wonder how much of your time you’re spending with the Waynes these days.” A slight accusatory tone in his voice.

Arabella turned, that same composed grace returning to her shoulders. “Dick’s a friend. So is Artemis. And neither of them have tried to manipulate me, lecture me, offer to ‘help’ me, or even get with me, which is more than I can say for half of Gotham.”

There was a pause.

“You like them,” Lex observed.

She looked out the window again, more guarded now. “Yeah. I do.”

Lex nodded slowly, unreadable. “Just don’t forget where you come from.”

Arabella’s gaze didn’t shift. “I haven’t. I just want to choose how my life goes.”

That earned her a look—not quite approval, not quite disapproval. Just a thoughtful silence that Lex carried with him as he stepped away.

When he left the room, Arabella finally let out a breath. She sank onto the edge of her bed and glanced at her phone again.

Another message from Dick.

Dick: “Tell Artemis she owes me one for bailing on her group project again.”

Arabella smirked and replied:

Arabella: “she’s coming to my place in a gown tomorrow. that’s gotta count for something.”

Chapter Text

Luthor Penthouse

September 28th – 05:30 EDT

The early Gotham morning was dim and still, skyscrapers like jagged shadows against a steel-blue sky. Mist clung to the windows of the Luthor Penthouse, catching the faint glow of the city beginning to stir.

Arabella adjusted the collar of her Gotham Academy blazer in the mirror and smoothed her freshly diffused hair over one shoulder. It fell in soft, wavy curls down her back, not a strand out of place. She always made sure it was perfect on this day.

She slipped into the hallway quietly, her loafers making barely a sound against the marble floor.

“Winston?” she called as she reached the edge of the dining area. Her voice, though calm, held that practised warmth she wore like perfume.

The older man appeared almost immediately from the kitchen corridor, dressed in his crisp uniform, always professional. “Yes, Miss Arabella?”

“Is the table on the balcony set?” she asked. Her tone was soft but expectant.

Winston blinked. “Not yet, miss. Would you like me to prepare it now?”

There was a moment of silence. Arabella offered a small nod, already glancing toward the tall glass doors that led to the sprawling balcony. “Yes, please.”

It wasn’t tradition, exactly. The Luthors had never been a sentimental family. Most mornings were silent ones, taken in the vast, echoing dining room. The balcony was reserved for appearances, luncheons, photo ops, rarely used for something as intimate as breakfast.

Except on the 28th of September.

Arabella had risen early every year since she was seven to coordinate the same quiet ritual. A private breakfast. Just the two of them. No cameras. No press releases. No expectations beyond a brief, civil moment where she could pretend, just for a little while, that their awfully strained relationship was something closer to normal.

The staff moved quickly. Within minutes, the balcony had transformed. Pale linens draped across the table, accented with navy detailing. Two place settings gleamed under the early light. A silver coffee service steamed gently. A bouquet of white orchids, his favourite, sat in a slender vase at the centre. The chefs had prepared everything: rosemary croissants, Gruyère omelettes, spiced fruit compote, and a pear tart Arabella had requested three days in advance.

It looked warm. Soft, even. Foreign amidst the penthouse’s cold modern aesthetic — but carefully curated with love, masked as perfection.

Arabella sat at one end of the table, back straight, fingers lightly brushing the rim of her coffee mug as the wind teased the edges of the napkins. The city stretched out before her like a kingdom she hadn’t asked to inherit.

She waited.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. By the twenty-fifth, her posture had stiffened, and her coffee had gone cold.

“Miss Arabella…” Winston’s voice was gentle as he stepped onto the balcony. His hands were clasped behind his back.

She didn’t look up.

“He’s not coming, is he?” she asked, her voice flat. He hadn’t shown up in the last 3 years. She didn’t know why she thought this year would have been different.

Winston hesitated, then offered a regretful nod. “No, Miss. His personal security detail just informed us he departed late last night, after you had gone to bed, for Metropolis. Business.”

Arabella let out a quiet scoff and pushed her chair back, the sound far louder than it should’ve been in the delicate morning hush.

“When duty calls,” she muttered, rising smoothly to her feet.

Winston bowed his head. “Your father answers.”

She glanced at the spread, the untouched tart, the coffee that had grown lukewarm with her patience. Her throat tightened, just slightly, before she schooled her expression again.

“Please donate all of this to the Gotham Homeless Alliance,” she said, voice poised once more. “And make sure it’s still warm when it arrives.”

“Yes, Miss.”

She turned on her heel, heading back inside without a glance behind her. The wind tugged softly at the orchid petals as the sun finally began to crest over the skyline. The table remained set for two.

But only one had shown up.

Arabella paused at the threshold of the sitting room, her hand resting lightly on the polished doorframe. She glanced over her shoulder, her expression composed but thoughtful.

“Oh, and Winston?”

The butler looked up from the tablet he had been reviewing, his posture attentive as always. “Yes, Miss Arabella?”

“Please prepare the house,” she said smoothly. “I’m expecting guests this afternoon. We’ll be getting ready for the gala tonight.”

Winston’s brow lifted just a fraction, the closest he ever came to teasing. “The usual suspects, I presume?”

Arabella smiled faintly — just enough to soften the otherwise efficient tone of the morning. “Yes. Charlotte, Anne-Marie… and one more.”

Winston tilted his head slightly. “An extra?”

She turned fully now, her voice lighter — but not careless. “I’ve made a new friend.”

“Of course, Miss,” he said with a courteous dip of his head. “Shall I expand the seating in the drawing room as well?”

“Mm, better double-check the lighting too. Charlotte will have opinions,” Arabella added wryly as she started down the hall, blazer swishing softly around her.

Winston inclined his head, already organising the details in his mind. “Very well, Miss Arabella. I’ll have the staff ready by midday. Your stylist and makeup artist are scheduled to arrive at 4:25 sharp.”

Arabella didn’t answer immediately. Her Prada loafers echoed softly against the marble floor as she continued down the hall, posture composed, gaze distant, thoughtful, almost wistful.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Gotham Academy

September 28th – 07:15 EDT

“Happy Luthor Day!” Charlotte called brightly, watching Arabella step out of the sleek, matte-black LexCorp town car. The morning sun glinted off the gold cuff of Arabella’s blazer as she adjusted her bag, her lips already tugging into a grimace.

“I’ve seen at least fifteen birthday edits of your dad on my feed already,” Charlotte added, falling into step beside her.

Arabella sighed. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll be sure not to open any apps until after the gala.”

The two made their way across the courtyard where Anne-Marie stood chatting with Artemis and Dick. Laughter floated from their little circle, the easy kind that only comes when routines finally settle.

“Happy Luthor Day, Bells!” Anne-Marie greeted, sweeping Arabella into a tight hug, her perfume subtly floral.

Artemis blinked. ‘Happy Luthor Day?’ She glanced at the others, clearly trying to gauge if this was an actual thing. Her confusion didn’t go unnoticed.

Arabella laughed, a rich, amused sound. “It’s a joke,” she said reassuringly, glancing at Artemis with a conspiratorial grin. “Sort of a private Gotham Academy joke—Charlotte started it when we were six. A bit of satirical flair to balance out the madness of a day like this.”

Dick raised a hand in greeting. “Morning, Arabella.”

She smiled. “Good morning, Dick.”

Anne-Marie leaned in with a teasing smile. “So? Did birthday breakfast go well?”

There was the briefest hesitation, barely a flicker in her expression. A second, maybe two—but Dick caught it.

“Of course,” Arabella replied smoothly, like muscle memory. “Lovely, as always.”

Before anyone could push further, she turned to Artemis, quickly switching gears. “Oh, after school, meet us in the courtyard so we can head back together. Winston’s arranged everything.” She reached into her structured handbag and produced an ivory envelope sealed with red wax, the Luthor crest embossed in shimmering gold.

“To Miss Artemis Crock,” it read in ornate calligraphy.

“Normally, our staff handles deliveries to the attendees’ residence,” Arabella added, “but I wanted to give you yours in person.”

Artemis took the envelope like it might shatter. It was heavy. And absolutely ridiculous. Of course, the Luthors would use liquid gold ink. This wasn’t an invitation—it was an event in itself.

“I—thanks,” Artemis managed. She honestly didn’t know whether to feel honoured or deeply out of her depth.

“It’s not all that bad,” Arabella added genuinely, her tone softer.

Artemis nodded, still staring at the seal like it might come alive.

A few minutes later, Artemis peeled off for a juniors-only assembly, while Charlotte and Anne-Marie walked ahead, chatting about dress fittings and who might be wearing Valentino tonight.

Dick slowed his pace until he was beside Arabella. The hallway felt quieter here, more insulated from the buzz of campus life.

“Happy Luthor Day,” he teased, nudging her lightly with his shoulder. “Can’t believe you guys still call it that.”

“I know,” she said with a faint smile. “Feels like just yesterday we were six, and Charlotte was trying to make it a national holiday.”

“Your dad didn’t show up, did he?” Dick asked quietly. His tone shifted—gentle, knowing.

Arabella’s expression flickered. The polish dulled, just a little. “No. He didn’t.”

She let the words hang there, unvarnished. Then—because she always did—she straightened her shoulders and quirked a brow.

“You just know me so well, don’t you, Grayson ?”

“You know I do.” He paused for a moment before adding, “ Luthor .” He flashed her the kind of smile that reached his eyes.

Arabella smirked. “By the way, I noticed your dad declined the invitation—again. Is he sending Gotham’s golden wonder boy in his place?”

“Yep. Like clockwork. Not sure why he bothers RSVPing at all when he knows I get my own invite anyway.”

“Fathers, huh?” she mused.

“Yeah,” Dick agreed, his voice quiet.

They walked in silence for a moment, two sides of the same coin. Arabella in her polished uniform and golden world, Dick in his blazer with his tie just slightly askew. Both shaped by men who cast long shadows in very different ways.

“See you at Business Management?” she asked, the moment of gravity passing like a cloud.

“Yeah.”

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The Business Management classroom smelled faintly of polished wood and expensive stationery, sunlight filtering through floor-length windows and glinting off the gold accents in the room’s modern chandelier. Gotham Academy didn’t believe in fluorescent lighting.

Arabella slid into her seat just as the bell chimed, crossed her legs with practised ease and set her Montblanc pen neatly beside her leather-bound notebook. A fresh schedule printout, personalised with the Luthor crest at the top, was already tucked into her folder.

“Cutting it close,” came a voice beside her.

Dick dropped into the seat to her right, grinning like he hadn’t just jogged in two seconds before the final bell.

Arabella didn’t look up from uncapping her pen. “I’m punctual. You’re reckless.”

“Tomato, tomahto.”

She arched a brow, amused. “I’m surprised you’re even awake. I assumed you’d be conserving energy for the red carpet walk tonight.”

Dick leaned closer, chin resting casually in his hand. “Who says I’m not just here to bask in your pre-gala glow?”

“Oh, please,” she scoffed, though the corners of her mouth twitched. “Save the charm for the press. Or for your date, if Bruce assigned you one.”

“He didn’t,” Dick said, smug. “Which means you’re stuck with me. Unless you’ve already promised all your dances to some tragic heir.”

Arabella turned to face him fully, hair spilling over her shoulder like liquid ink. “Unless you’re the tragic heir, I’ve promised nothing. But I do recall someone saying they could ‘outwaltz any trust fund baby in a ten-mile radius.’”

“Bold words,” he said, matching her stare. “You planning on testing me?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

From a few rows behind, Anne-Marie narrowed her eyes.

She had seen them flirt before—Gotham Academy was practically built on aristocratic tension—but this? This was... charged and very different.

Before she could lean forward and whisper a snide observation, the professor, a thin man in a custom grey suit and perfectly pressed shirt, called the class to order.

“Today, we’re discussing corporate ethics and public image. Or, in some cases, lack thereof.”

A few students laughed. Arabella didn’t blink. She was too used to thinly veiled commentary aimed her way.

“Now, you’ll be working with your desk partner to prepare a mock press statement in response to a fictional company scandal,” the professor continued. “Damage control, reputation repair, media spin—you know, all the real-world essentials.”

Dick raised a brow at her. “Think we should just submit a copy of your dad’s autobiography and call it a day?”

Arabella gave him a mock gasp. “You wound me, Grayson. Besides, your father’s entire brand is brooding and denial. Between us, we could run this school.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” Dick said, leaning just a touch too close.

They bent over the assignment together, shoulder to shoulder. Arabella’s handwriting was neat and elegant, while Dick’s notes—equally sharp—had a relaxed slant. Occasionally, their fingers brushed as they passed papers or reached for the same highlighter.

“Alright,” she murmured, glancing at the mock scandal: CEO caught in conflict-of-interest deal with family-owned tech company.

“Sounds like our average Wednesday,” Dick quipped.

Arabella smirked. “We’ll lead with transparency, deny malicious intent, and spin it as a mentorship initiative.”

“God, you’re good at this.”

“I’ve had practice.”

There was a brief silence before Dick murmured, “You ever wish you didn’t?”

She glanced at him, the usual glint in her eyes dimming just slightly. But then the smile returned, smooth as silk.

“No.” She scoffed. “I like knowing how the game works. Makes it easier to win.”

Their gazes lingered longer than was strictly necessary.

Anne-Marie tilted her head and muttered under her breath, “ Unbelievable. ”

Charlotte—sitting beside her—looked up. “What?”

“Nothing,” Anne-Marie said, still watching the two of them. “Just watching Gotham’s version of Romeo and Juliet.”

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Mr. Penhaligon looked mildly amused as he scanned the class roster. “Mr. Grayson, Miss Luthor. Let’s see how the Bellmere executive power couple handles scandal.”

Arabella stood, smoothing the front of her blazer, and gave Dick a sidelong glance. “Ready, darling?” she said, just loud enough for the front row to hear.

Dick stood with a grin. “Always, sweetheart.” 

They, of course, opted for the theatrical approach.

A ripple of laughter moved through the classroom.

The screen behind them flickered to life with the logo: Bellmere Solutions — beneath it, the words “A Future-Focused Tech Conglomerate.” Dick had clearly done a poor job when he photoshopped a photo of two businessmen as Mr. and Mrs. Bell smiling, using his and Arabella’s faces. It popped onto the slide and earned a ripple of laughter through the population of the class.

Arabella—now Mrs. Isabelle Bell—spoke first, her voice smooth and composed.

“Good morning. We want to thank the public and our investors for their patience during this time. As co-CEOS of Bellmere Solutions, we understand the seriousness of the concerns raised about our recent contract with Solvex Technologies—a company owned by my husband’s cousin.”

Dick—Mr. Donovan Bell—nodded solemnly.

“A cousin I haven’t spoken to since he ruined Christmas three years ago. But yes, technically family.”

Arabella turned to him with a hint of a smile. “Let’s not bring up the yule log incident again.”

The class laughed. Mr. Penhaligon chuckled behind his desk, tapping a pen against his notes.

Dick continued with a theatrical sigh.

“We recognise that while there was no ill intent, the optics of the deal were… not ideal. Nepotism is a tricky beast.”

Arabella nodded.

“And though the procurement team acted independently, we accept full responsibility. We are, after all, the face of Bellmere. Even if only one of us is the brains.”

Dick shot her a look, eyes twinkling. “That’s not what you said last night during the quarterly projections.”

Anne-Marie let out an audible “Oh my god” as the class broke into laughter again.

Charlotte blinked, then leaned toward her. “What are they doing ?”

Anne-Marie just raised her brows knowingly.

Dick stepped forward, holding up a mock press statement.

“Effective immediately, we’ve initiated a full independent review of our internal approval processes. We’re also establishing a Conflict of Interest Task Force led by third-party advisors—none of whom are related to me, Isabelle, or our cats.”

Arabella picked up smoothly, tone gracious but firm.

“Furthermore, I will be recusing myself from all contract oversight related to family-owned businesses. This was a lapse in perception, not ethics, but perception matters. And we care deeply about restoring trust.”

Dick leaned on the podium, flashing that signature smirk.

“Also, I’ve been grounded. No more cousin meetings without a chaperone.”

Arabella turned her head, deadpan. “You say that like it’s a punishment.”

The class howled. Even Mr. Penhaligon smiled and scribbled a comment in his notes.

Arabella closed out with practised polish.

“At Bellmere Solutions, we believe leadership means owning our mistakes as much as our successes. We remain committed to transparency, accountability, and integrity. Thank you.”

Dick added, “And to family. Even the messy ones.”

They bowed dramatically as the classroom erupted in applause.

Back at their seats, Anne-Marie looked pointedly at Charlotte. “Did you hear that domestic banter ?”

Charlotte, still laughing, whispered, “They didn’t even break character.”

“Because it’s not a character,” Anne-Marie said under her breath.

Meanwhile, Dick leaned toward Arabella, voice just low enough.

“Think we’ve got a future in corporate spin?”

Arabella arched a brow. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw in a prenup clause halfway through.”

Dick grinned. “Now that would’ve made headlines.”

Arabella glanced over at Anne-Marie, catching her look. She gave her a wink. For once, she felt completely at ease being watched.

After all, Mr. and Mrs. Bell had just stolen the show.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

As the applause settled and Dick and Arabella returned to their seats—Arabella still radiating poised confidence and Dick slouching into his chair with that casual, self-satisfied grin—Mr. Penhaligon rose from behind his desk and clapped slowly.

“Well, well. That was… thoroughly entertaining.” His voice, dry as ever, held the trace of a smile. “Mr. Grayson, Miss Luthor—your natural chemistry, frankly, outperformed half the real press briefings I’ve seen from actual companies under fire.”

A few students whistled and murmured playful “oohs” and “ahhs,” and someone in the back muttered, “Power couple.”

Mr. Penhaligon waved a hand. “More importantly, it was clear you understood the brief, tone management, stakeholder reassurance, strategic humour, and accountability. And you did it while keeping your audience engaged, which I’ll remind the rest of you is half the battle in public-facing crisis response .”

Arabella dipped her head modestly. “Thank you, sir.”

Dick added with a grin, “We try to keep things lively, sir. You know, keep the shareholders from falling asleep mid-disaster. You know, why can’t they ever just… feel the aster ?”

That got another round of chuckles from the class—some amused, some confused—but Arabella’s breath hitched the slightest bit.

“Feel the aster.” She replayed in her head. It was such a specific turn of phrase. One she hadn’t heard outside the shadowed edges of her other life.

Her gaze flicked sideways, watching the way Dick’s eyes sparkled, so comfortable in his skin. The phrase—too niche, too oddly perfect—unsettled her for a heartbeat. Her mind spiralled, but only for a moment.

Robin had said that once. Or maybe more than once. Definitely more than once. Always with that same cocky grin under the mask, a brand of humour that walked the tightrope between clever and infuriating. She’d never really understood it— him. He was chaos in controlled doses, and he never let her forget that although he trusted her, he was still wary.

And Dick—her friend, her close friend, the version of confidence and charisma without the sharp edges—was so different.

“If Dick and Robin ever met…” She blinked and listened to her thoughts. Would they get along? Would they clash? Or would Dick just charm his way through Robin’s deflective barbs the way he did with her?

Arabella forced herself back into the moment, pushing those threads of thought to the corner of her mind where Nyx lived. She smoothed her features and tossed her hair over one shoulder, leaning in just slightly as she whispered to Dick with a soft smile, “Aster, huh? You’ve got a real way with words, Mr. Bell.”

Dick smirked, elbow casually resting on the desk between them. “Only for Mrs. Bell.”

From the front of the room, Mr. Penhaligon cleared his throat with a small, knowing glance in their direction. “Yes, well. Let’s hope the real Bellmere Industries, Bellsphere Industries, never has a PR disaster, or I know who I’m hiring.”

Mr. Penhaligon smirked and nodded, glancing at his clipboard. “Honestly, I was starting to worry this room was slipping into a pre-lunch coma. You two jolted it back. Well done.”

As he turned to mark something down, Anne-Marie leaned toward Charlotte like she physically couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Okay, no, something shifted. That was not just banter.”

Charlotte’s brow was furrowed. “I know. I’ve seen them flirt before, but that? That was full-on married-couple telepathy .”

Anne-Marie nodded fervently. “And the way she called him darling, like it was second nature?”

“And he looked at her like he actually forgot they weren’t married for a second.”

They both turned and subtly eyed Arabella, who was now casually twirling her pen and whispering something back to Dick that made him laugh and shake his head.

Charlotte muttered, “I don’t know what happened, but I want the whole story. ”

Anne-Marie folded her arms and whispered back, “We’re getting it. One way or another.”

Arabella, catching the two girls glancing her way, simply offered a serene, knowing smile—one that said she knew they were watching.

And she didn’t mind one bit.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Dick was already at their usual spot, stretched out with one leg slung over the other, picking the olives out of his sandwich with casual precision. He looked relaxed. Too relaxed. Barbara narrowed her eyes as she set her tray down.

“So.”

He didn’t look up.

“So?” he echoed.

She raised a brow. “You and Arabella.”

Dick popped a chip into his mouth, chewing slowly. “What about Arabella?”

She gave him a knowing look. “Don’t play dumb.”

“We’ve known each other since we were kids.”

Barbara leaned forward. “Right, I know, but I’m not asking for your friendship history. Word is that mock press statement of yours practically had tension in the subtext.”

He grinned like he hadn’t heard her. “You think I should go into PR?”

“I think you were one shoulder touch away from setting the room on fire.” She picked up her water and swirled it idly. “Anne-Marie’s convinced you’re secretly dating.”

“Not dating,” he said immediately, laughing under his breath. “It’s just... Bells and I have always had this thing. We joke. We flirt. She rolls her eyes. I do something dumb. It’s our rhythm.”

Barbara studied him. “Maybe. But it used to feel performative. Now it feels… loaded.”

Dick’s smile dimmed, not gone—but softened into something more contemplative. He shrugged lightly. “It’s fun. It’s easy. We both know it’s not serious.”

“You sure about that?”

He hesitated but kept his tone light. “Yeah. We’ve got enough going on. Arabella’s... Arabella. Daughter of Lex Luthor. Crown princess of Gotham’s elite. There’s no confusion between us.”

Barbara tilted her head. “That’s what worries me. You’re acting like because the boundaries are clear now, they’ll stay that way. But I know you. You care too easily. And you hide it even better.” 

Dick gave her a faint look, caught off guard—not by the words, but by how precisely she’d said them.

“She knows where she stands,” he said. “We both do. We’ve talked about it. We keep it light.”

“You’ve talked about it?” Her eyes widened.

“Yeah, a couple of years ago.”

“And what happens when one of you stops pretending it’s light?” Barbara continued.

He didn’t respond.

Barbara leaned her forearms on the table. “Look, I’m not saying she’s not great. She is. You guys are weirdly well-matched, honestly. Smart, charming, and can hold your own in any room. But this? This isn’t just about chemistry. It’s about optics. Families. Legacies. If anything goes sideways, it won’t just affect you two—it’ll ripple.”

Dick tapped a finger against the side of his drink, brows furrowed. “You sound like Bruce.”

“Good,” Barbara said. “Because he’s normally always right.”

That got a soft chuckle out of him. “You think I’m getting in too deep?”

“I think you’re halfway in already. And I think you don’t realise it because Arabella makes it so easy to fall into her orbit.”

Dick looked out over the railing, scanning the cafeteria floor absently. “It’s harmless, Babs.”

“For now,” she said gently. “But for both your sakes, tone it down tonight. People will be watching. Not just your friends, not just the press— the League, her father. ”

He nodded, slowly. The majority of the League knew Dick Grayson was Robin. “You think she’s already caught up in it?” 

“I think she hides more than she lets on,” Barbara said. “You may think you know her, Dick. I may think I know her. But trust me—no one gets this far in Gotham without keeping their cards close.”

He sighed. “So what—you want me to just ghost her?”

“No,” Barbara said, softening. “I want you to remember that whatever you’re doing—whatever this is—it’s not happening in a vacuum. People are paying attention. And if you’re not careful, someone’s going to get hurt.”

He went quiet for a beat.

Then, with a wry smile: “You’re just mad you didn’t get to play Mrs. Bell.”

Barbara rolled her eyes. “Please. I would’ve exposed the scandal on purpose and burned the company to the ground.”

They both laughed, but the weight hadn’t quite lifted. Dick’s smile lingered, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. Barbara didn’t press again.

Not yet, anyway.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Arabella was halfway through a perfectly juicy peach when Anne-Marie slid into the seat beside her with all the subtlety of a thunderclap.

Charlotte followed, arms crossed, an eyebrow raised in the sort of way that spelt trouble for anyone trying to avoid being the topic of gossip. Arabella blinked up from her notes and peach, cool and composed—until Artemis plopped down across from her, a tray of fries and suspicion in her eyes.

“What,” Arabella said slowly, “is there something on my face?”

“Oh, Arabella, it’s nothing,” Anne-Marie chirped, clearly lying. “Just curious how your Business Management class went this morning.”

“Specifically, your press statement performance,” Charlotte added, pulling out her phone with casual menace. “Courtesy of Miss Fairchild, here, some of the juniors are whispering about how steamy the Mr. and Mrs. Bell act was.”

Artemis looked between them. “Wait, what are you talking about?”

Anne-Marie turned to her. “Arabella and Dick gave such a charmingly electric performance during their presentation that our entire class was either blushing or taking notes. It was like we were reading a fanfiction of Dick and Arabella. And yes , someone has actually written one before.”

“It wasn’t that serious,” Arabella said evenly, though the corner of her mouth tugged upwards.

Charlotte leaned in. “Bells, you were Mrs. Bell. He was Mr. Bell. You kept calling him ‘darling’ while defending your fake company and fake marriage from a fake ethical scandal. I’m sorry, but it was a lot.”

Arabella let out a breath, resting her chin on her hand. “It was acting. For class. You two are being dramatic.”

Anne-Marie narrowed her eyes. “Maybe. But let’s not pretend there isn’t something… Shakespearean about this.”

Artemis frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Charlotte said sweetly, twirling her truffle pasta with her fork. “LexCorp heiress Arabella Luthor flirts on the daily with Gotham’s golden wonder boy Dick Grayson—heir to Wayne Enterprises, son of Bruce Wayne himself. Gotham’s very own Capulet and Montague.”

Artemis blinked. “Seriously?”

Arabella gave her a helpless shrug. “I didn’t start it.”

“Well, you’re clearly not denying it,” Charlotte muttered.

“Are you kidding? You two have been circling each other since the day he arrived at GA,” Anne-Marie said. “But today? It wasn’t just banter. There was chemistry .”

“Dangerous chemistry,” Charlotte added. “The kind that ignites PR nightmares and front-page speculation. Especially tonight—at the Gala.”

Artemis stared at Arabella. “Wait. You invited him ?”

“He gets invited every year,” Arabella replied smoothly. 

“Bruce Wayne does,” Charlotte countered gently.

“And Dick has attended in his place, as well as alongside him, since he was nine,” Arabella said, matter-of-fact. “It’s nothing new.”

Anne-Marie arched a brow. “Nothing new? Nothing new, except for how you two were acting today in Business Management.”

Artemis looked at them, clearly trying to catch up. “Okay, what happened in Business?”

“They were paired up for the mock press conference,” Anne-Marie said, dropping into a mock swoon. “They played a married CEO couple, and I swear — Arabella was doing the voice, the eyes, the whole thing. Dick was right there with her, tossing out little quips like they were flirting in a rom-com.”

Charlotte smirked. “It was so good that even Mr. Penhaligon commented on their chemistry. And the entire class was buzzing. You two were basically putting on a soft launch.”

Arabella gave a small, amused scoff. “We were having fun.”

Anne-Marie’s smile softened. “That’s what we figured. But Bells, here’s the thing…” She trailed off for a second, searching for the right words. “You and Dick? You’re close. You’ve been close. Since forever. If this starts to mean something—and then doesn’t work out—are you really ready for what that could do to your friendship?”

Charlotte nodded, quieter now. “That’s what we’re worried about. Not the gossip. Not the press. You. We’ve seen the way he looks at you lately. And how you look back.”

“It’s not serious,” Arabella said softly, but there was a pause in her voice that made all three of them notice.

“We’re not accusing you of anything,” Anne-Marie said quickly. “But sometimes these things sneak up on you. One minute it’s playful, harmless banter—and then suddenly, someone catches feelings. And if it’s not mutual, or the timing’s wrong…”

Charlotte’s tone was unusually gentle. “It’s not just about you and Dick. It’s about everything around you—your families, your names, the companies. The stakes .”

“And if something does go wrong,” Anne-Marie added, “we just don’t want it to ruin something that’s been good, great for years. That’s all.”

Arabella’s gaze softened, all her usual armour peeling back for a moment.

“You guys… really think this could go that far?” 

“We think it could,” Charlotte said carefully. “And maybe that’s why we’re saying something now, before it does. We care about you, Bells. This isn’t us being dramatic. This is us being your friends.”

“Always,” Anne-Marie said. “Even if we roll our eyes when you flirt like a married couple.”

Arabella gave a small laugh, more grateful than amused. “Thanks. Seriously. I know you mean well. And I’ll be careful. I promise.”

“Good,” Charlotte said, looping her arm through Arabella’s. “Now, let’s go finish this eventful school day so we can glam up for this Gala. And if Dick Grayson gets within three feet of you during a slow song, I’m invoking emergency intervention.”

“Noted,” Arabella said dryly.

“Oh, we’re joking,” Anne-Marie said with a wink. “Mostly.”

Artemis trailed behind them, watching quietly, her expression thoughtful.

Chapter Text

Luthor Penthouse

September 28th – 16:13 EDT

“Welcome home, Miss Arabella,” Winston greeted her with a slight bow as the girls entered the Luthor penthouse.

Charlotte and Anne-Marie stepped through the doors as if they owned the place, immediately shedding their uniform jackets and setting their bags on the console table near the elevator, already half-calling out to familiar staff with waves and cheeky grins.

“Hi, Margaux, the orchids look stunning this time,” Anne-Marie said casually, peeking into the drawing room with a practised eye. “Did Winston rearrange the parlour again, and is the Titian new?”

“It’s been rotated in from the secondary collection,” Arabella said without missing a beat, dropping her school bag in the exact same spot she always did.

“Ah, that explains it.” Charlotte barely looked at the floor-to-ceiling painting as she wandered in the direction of the East Salon, low heels clicking against the marble like she was walking a runway she’d grown up on.

Artemis paused just beyond the entryway, her backpack still on one shoulder. Her eyes scanned the impossibly high ceilings, the shimmering chandeliers, the sleek black marble veined with silver, and the floor-to-ceiling windows revealing Gotham’s skyline at golden hour.

“Wait,” Artemis said, blinking slowly. “This is your apartment ?”

Charlotte turned with a smirk. “Technically, it’s a penthouse.”

“No,” Artemis said, still frozen near the grand piano. “This is a museum. A palace. Wayne Manor doesn’t even look this shiny on the news.”

“It’s just home,” Arabella said with a shrug, already handing off her coat to a waiting attendant.

“Through the atrium,” Anne-Marie pointed, “To the dressing room. Winston, we absolutely need sparkling water, two green juices, and some strawberries. Maybe those little honey-glazed fig bites you had last time?”

“Already on their way, Miss Anne-Marie,” Winston replied dutifully.

M’gann would love this. Artemis turned to Arabella in disbelief. “You have… dressing rooms ?”

“I mean, yeah.” Arabella hesitated. “One for evening wear, one for fittings. The main wardrobe’s in my suite.”

Anne-Marie hooked her arm through Artemis’s and led her gently toward the corridor, her tone almost teasing but not unkind. “We’ll go slow, I promise. You’ll be a gala pro by the end of the night.”

As they walked through the penthouse’s east wing, Artemis slowed to take it all in. Every hallway felt like it belonged in a luxury hotel—warm, golden lighting, museum-quality art, intricately carved moulding, and not a speck of clutter. It was lived-in, yes, but only in the way a billionaire’s residence could be: curated, spotless, and impossibly expensive.

A staff member opened a set of tall double doors to reveal what could only be described as a private glam studio. Mirrors framed with soft lights lined one wall, plush chairs sat in front of custom vanity stations, and gowns—real gowns—hung behind glass in a softly lit wardrobe display.

Artemis gawked. “Okay. This is unreal.”

Charlotte laughed. “Welcome to Arabella’s Fortress of Fabitude.”

Arabella gave her a dry look. “I swear you just make up those names.”

“But you let me,” Charlotte replied with a wink.

Arabella motioned toward the rows of clothing. “The staff pulled a few options for you, Artemis. You can pick whatever feels right.”

Artemis’s eyes fell on the garments lined up for her: silk, satin, velvet—deep jewel tones and classic cuts, things she’d only seen in magazines or movies. She reached out toward a navy off-shoulder gown and stopped midair, like touching it would be a crime.

Anne-Marie stepped beside her with a kind smile. “This isn’t a loan. This is yours, if you want it.”

Arabella added, voice gentle but firm, “You’re my guest. You’re family here.” 

Artemis looked up, searching her expression. Then she exhaled slowly and nodded. “Okay. Then I guess I'd better figure out how to walk in heels.”

Charlotte was already digging into a drawer full of accessories. “That’s what we’re here for. Operation Gala Glow-Up is officially underway.”

As the team of stylists entered the room and the chatter picked up around them, Artemis sat back, still stunned. For Charlotte and Anne-Marie, this was just Thursday. For Arabella, this was routine.

And for Artemis? It was another world entirely.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Anne-Marie and Charlotte had been spirited off to the sunroom just down the corridor, where Winston had mentioned the seamstresses were making final adjustments to their accessories and evening clutches. The air in that room had likely turned bright and buzzing—champagne flutes clinking, fabric samples fluttering like butterflies, and laughter echoing off the marble. The two girls were perfectly in their element, drifting through the curated chaos with practised grace. They greeted longtime staff by name, offered knowing asides about which socialite had switched from Dior to Elie Saab this year, and casually took charge of organising the guests' order for the grand staircase entrance, as though they’d been born under chandeliers. They fit into the penthouse’s rarefied air like silk gloves—smooth, elegant, and utterly at ease.

Back in the dressing suite, the contrast was stark.

Artemis stood alone in the centre of the room, her posture rigid beneath the soft drape of an ivory silk robe. The Luthor crest had been delicately embroidered on the collar in thread so pale it shimmered like frost, but it felt more like a brand than a luxury. Her hair had been twisted into a sleek, sculptural updo, secured with golden pins that caught the light every time she so much as breathed. Her makeup had been applied with exacting precision—cheekbones shaded into impossible angles, her eyeliner flicked into an elegant wing, her lips glossed to a mirror-like shine—but none of it belonged to her.

The stylists swarmed like bees, snipping comments with precision sharper than their scissors.

“She has good bone structure, but this eyebrow arch isn’t doing her any favours—”

“—She has quite okay shoulders, strapless might flatter—”

“—And the skin tone is so unique. A bold red might be too harsh. Maybe a muted bronze? Or no—hazardous—orange brings out too much contrast.”

“Do you… have a backup gown?” one of them asked Arabella pointedly.

Arabella’s voice cut through the low buzz of commentary and rustling fabric like a blade drawn clean from its sheath.
“Enough.”

It wasn’t shouted. It didn’t need to be. The word hit the air with such clarity, such authority, that the entire room stilled—hands froze mid-pin, whispers died on painted lips, and for one breathless second, no one dared move.

“She is not a mannequin,” Arabella said, each syllable deliberate, cool steel beneath velvet. “She’s my guest. And you will treat her with the same care and dignity you’d extend to me. If that’s too difficult, you’re free to excuse yourselves.”

Her tone never wavered—no raised voice, no theatrics—just the kind of calm finality that made people listen. That made people obey.

The stylists exchanged a flurry of uneasy glances. One of them muttered an apology under her breath before retreating toward the accessory table. Another busied herself rearranging silk scarves with unnecessary intensity. Within seconds, they were ghosts, fading into corners of the suite to make themselves invisible.

Artemis hadn’t moved.

She stood like a statue carved in uncertainty, hands clenched into the sleeves of the silk robe, shoulders stiff, jaw tight. The golden pins in her hair glittered like a crown she hadn’t asked for. She looked like she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

The door clicked softly shut behind the last of the stylists. The silence that followed was thick, padded in velvet and tension.

“Hey,” Arabella said, more softly now. She crossed the room and stopped beside her, her voice shifting—gentle, real, threading warmth into the quiet. “I get it. I really do.”

She reached out but didn’t touch—just stood close enough to feel. To be a presence instead of a pressure.

“This world,” she went on, her tone wry but not unkind, “is loud. And glittery. And full of unspoken rules made by people who pretend they invented elegance. One second you’re breathing, and the next someone’s poking at your face, telling you who to be, what to wear, how to stand, how to exist. It’s exhausting.”

With a quiet breath, Arabella crouched beside the wardrobe and drew a long garment bag from the back of the rack. It was clearly one she’d hidden there intentionally, tucked behind the flashier gowns in their sequinned, high-shine glory. She laid it carefully across the settee, then unzipped it with a slow, almost reverent hand.

Inside was a gown the colour of deep forest after rainfall—dark green with subtle undertones of black and silver when the fabric shifted in the light. It was sleek, its silhouette fluid, the lines sharp and unfussy. No beading. No feathers. No overdesigned drama.

Just clean strength. Quiet elegance. Power in restraint.

Artemis blinked, the tightness in her features loosening. “That’s… not horrifying.”

Arabella smiled, something warm and wicked and full of affection flickering in her eyes. “I had it made for you.”

She ran her fingers lightly down the fabric. “It’s strong. Like you. Doesn’t need glitter or sparkles to command a room.”

A breath escaped Artemis’s chest, shaky but real. Almost a laugh. Almost.

Arabella moved behind her, raising both hands to the golden pins still fixed into the sculpted twist of her hair. She worked gently, patiently, sliding each one free with the precision of someone trained to dismantle traps. The updo loosened strand by strand, until soft golden waves spilt down Artemis’s back like a sigh of relief.

Arabella gathered some of it with deft fingers, twisting and tying it into a looser, familiar half-up style—less debutante, more archer. Still elegant. Still beautiful. But unmistakably her.

“There. That’s the Artemis I know,” she said softly.

“Do I look ridiculous?” Artemis asked after a long pause.

Arabella shook her head. “You look like yourself. A beautiful, smart, headstrong, and brilliant friend.”

There was silence for a beat longer, and then Artemis said, “Thanks. For… all of this. I don’t know how you do it every day.”

Arabella smiled, softer this time. “Some days, I don’t.” That was the honest truth.

They stood in the mirror’s reflection, side by side. A Luthor and a Crock. High society and street-born grit. But somehow, perfectly matched in that moment. 

If Wally could see her now, he’d probably forget how to blink, let alone speak.

The thought hit her out of nowhere, sharp and uninvited, and she frowned at her own reflection like it might offer an answer. Why was she thinking about Wally at a time like this?

She shook her head, willing the thought away like a mosquito buzzing too close. 

When her gaze settled back on the mirror, something in her stilled.

She wasn’t just pretty. She wasn’t even just beautiful.

She was formidable.

The girl staring back at her in the glass wore the deep green like armour—it hugged her body like it had been tailored from shadows and emerald fire, shaped by intention instead of accident. It didn’t just fit. It claimed her. The neckline was structured but elegant, the lines clean, every inch of it whispering strength rather than screaming for attention.

Her hair, freed from the sculpted cage it had been forced into earlier, now framed her face in loose, golden waves, half-gathered with deliberate softness. It looked like her. Not some polished idea of who she should be. But who she chose to be.

There was a glint in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. Not just the usual fire that simmered beneath her skin, the edge of defiance she wore like instinct, but something else, something rarer. A quiet certainty. A knowing.

Maybe it was confidence. Maybe it was the faint, startling sensation of being understood. Of someone reaching into the chaos and saying: You don’t have to change to belong.

And somehow… that changed everything.

Artemis took one final glance at the mirror. She looked like a girl ready to descend into a ballroom with knives tucked in her smile. A girl who knew how to command a room, or disappear from it. Someone who could sip champagne with the heiresses—or vault over the marble balcony railing and vanish into the night if things got dull.

“Now,” Arabella said, nudging her gently, her tone warm and playful, “let’s go show them what real elegance looks like.”

Artemis smirked. “You mean chaos in heels?”

Arabella’s grin widened. “Is there a difference?”

And as they turned to leave, Artemis held her head a little higher—because somehow, in a penthouse made of glass and gold, surrounded by people who measured worth in last names and designer labels, she didn’t feel like an outsider anymore.

She felt like herself. And that was all the elegance she needed.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The quiet hush of the hallway contrasted with the soft laughter and echoing heels approaching. Artemis walked just behind Arabella, the long train of her deep green gown gliding over the marble.

They turned the corner into one of the chandelier-lit corridors and were immediately met with wide eyes.

Charlotte gasped audibly. “No way. ” She hurried forward, her silver heels clicking.

Anne-Marie followed with a grin. “ Okay, that’s our Artemis? You look—” she paused, stunned, “like you were born for this.”

“You guys are insane,” Artemis mumbled, trying not to hide behind Arabella’s shoulder. But she smiled all the same.

Charlotte circled once, appraising the rich green fabric. “That colour’s criminally good on you.”

“Told you,” Arabella said softly, with the sort of satisfied pride only a true friend could have. “You look like yourself.”

Anne-Marie tapped her wrist. “We’ve got just under an hour before guests arrive. We wanted to stop by your suite and check the lighting, and obviously check ourselves out, before we all head down for our red carpet photos.”

“I still can’t believe I have to pose for anything,” Artemis muttered.

“Oh, honey,” Charlotte grinned, linking her arm with Artemis, “you do not know what’s coming for you.”

The girls made their way toward Arabella’s room in a comfortable cocoon of laughter and effortless banter, heels clicking against polished marble, silk skirts whispering with movement. It was a rare moment of ease, light spilling through the penthouse’s chandeliers, casting gold across their gowns, their friendship briefly untouched by expectation or history.

But as they turned the final corner—

They froze.

Lex Luthor stood just outside the arched entrance to his private study, framed by the geometric shadows cast by the corridor’s art-deco sconces. He spoke in hushed tones to a security aide, one hand tucked neatly behind his back, the other gesturing with calm precision. The conversation ended mid-sentence the moment he spotted them.

His gaze landed on Arabella first. And then—naturally, smoothly—slid to Artemis.

He looked every inch the public figure: impeccably groomed, tuxedo pressed within an inch of its life, the soft sheen of his cufflinks catching the light just so. Gotham’s favourite philanthropist. The man who shook hands with presidents and smiled for camera flashes without blinking.

And in that smile, there was nothing out of place. No flicker of recognition. No tightening of the jaw or narrowing of the eyes.

Just warmth. Perfectly measured, precisely delivered.

“Well,” he said, voice like silk over steel, “you’re a vision of beauty.”

Anne-Marie stepped forward first, always quick on her social feet. “Mr. Luthor,” she said gracefully, offering a slight tilt of her head. “Happy birthday.”

“Happy birthday,” Charlotte echoed, flashing a radiant smile.

Lex nodded, expression gracious. “Thank you, Miss Fairchild. Miss Fontaine. You both look radiant tonight.”

Charlotte gave a delighted laugh. “You always say that.”

“I only say it when it’s true,” he replied with a charming smile that could’ve belonged to any billionaire on a magazine cover. But his eyes lingered.

They found Artemis again.

“And this must be Artemis,” he said, voice dipped in familiarity. “Arabella mentioned you two have grown quite close.”

Artemis stiffened slightly, the silk of her gown rustling with the shift. She straightened her spine and met his gaze with careful politeness. “Yes, sir. It’s… an honour to be here.”

Lex offered her the kind of smile that could disarm boardrooms. “The pleasure is ours. And I must say—that dress suits you. Arabella has quite the eye.”

“She really does,” Artemis replied quietly. Her voice held steady, but there was a flicker beneath the surface-- a quiet wariness behind her lashes.

Lex didn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps he simply didn’t care to show it.

“Well,” he said, gesturing gracefully down the hall. “Enjoy the evening, all of you. I’ll see you shortly.”

“Thank you, Mr. Luthor,” they chorused, voices perfectly in sync, trained by years of etiquette and instinct. And then, with carefully measured steps, they moved past him.

But as they did, Artemis could feel the weight of his gaze linger, just for a second too long. A chill crawled up her spine despite the warmth of the air.

And Arabella, though her expression never faltered, tightened her grip on the clutch in her hand like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the ground.

The moment they were out of earshot, Charlotte exhaled sharply. “That man has the voice of a Bond villain and the smile of a politician.”

Anne-Marie smirked. “The dangerous combo.”

Artemis was silent, the weight of her first encounter with the infamous Lex Luthor settling in.

Arabella gently touched her arm. “You okay? My dad can be a bit much sometimes.” More like a lot.

Artemis gave a small nod. “Yeah. Just… yeah.”

They reached Arabella’s suite, and as the doors swept open, the noise and shimmer of the penthouse below fell away like a dropped veil.

Inside was a world apart—still opulent, but hushed. The lighting was soft and golden, casting a gentle glow over the space, as if the room itself had exhaled. A bottle of chilled champagne waited in a silver bucket on the coffee table, flanked by tall flutes that caught the light like crystal icicles. The scent of fresh florals lingered in the air—lilies, white gardenias, and soft roses arranged in asymmetrical bouquets that looked more like sculpture than centrepieces.

Along one wall stood a curated line of dress racks, each gown spaced with reverence, like priceless works of art. Silks and satins glimmered in muted hues—deep emerald, midnight blue, champagne gold—each piece a quiet statement, chosen with care. Accessories gleamed on a nearby vanity: velvet boxes cracked open to reveal glints of gold, pearl, and black onyx. Shoes rested on mirrored shelves, heels glinting like tiny weapons.

A playlist of soft classical jazz played low in the background, just loud enough to smooth the silence, but not interrupt it. The air was cool, perfumed with something subtle and expensive—Arabella’s signature scent, impossible to place and harder to forget.

Here, away from the eyes of the gala, the suite felt like a sanctum-- a place where everything was measured, beautiful, and—just for a moment—safe.

“Alright,” Charlotte said, kicking off her heels dramatically onto the carpet. “Now, let’s enjoy the calm before the chaos.”

“And touch up your lipstick,” Anne-Marie added, plucking a compact from her clutch. “We’ve got a red carpet to conquer.”

But Arabella, catching Artemis’s still-tense posture, gave her hand a light squeeze.

“We’ve got this,” she said gently. “Together.”

And Artemis, surrounded by satin gowns, marble floors, and girls who saw her as more than where she came from, finally let herself believe it.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

From the towering windows of the Luthor Penthouse, the city below looked like a glittering diorama—flashing bulbs strobing against the night like camera flashes on a gemstone. Paparazzi clustered in dense knots outside the main LexCorp Tower entrance, cordoned off behind velvet ropes and chrome barriers. They shouted questions into the chilled evening air as town cars, limousines, and sleek imported vehicles pulled up one by one. Each door that opened revealed another high-profile guest poised to make their descent onto the crimson stretch of carpet lined with press and curated onlookers.

Inside, the hum of glamour filtered in only faintly, distant and controlled. A private intercom feed in one of the drawing rooms carried the announcer’s voice through discreet speakers embedded in the crown moulding: a smooth, practised tone reciting names like poetry. The penthouse halls—elegant, serene, and removed from the chaos below—echoed softly with each introduction. The guests would not reach the upper levels for at least another hour. There was time yet for final touches. Final murmurs. Final masks.

“Mr. and Mrs. Fontaine,” the announcer intoned, “accompanied by Director Charles Fontaine.”

Charlotte adjusted the clasp of her clutch, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile. “That’s them.”

The monitor showed the three descending the car steps with effortless poise. Her mother, resplendent in a plum silk gown cut to glide with every movement, diamond chandelier earrings swaying against her neck, greeted the crowd with a cool, practised smile. Beside her, Charlotte’s father stood tall, broad-shouldered and imposing in a bespoke tuxedo, his expression carved from the same stone-faced confidence that had earned him a reputation far beyond his military and intelligence career. Charles Fontaine didn’t often make appearances, but when he did, silence followed.

“Mr. Victor and Mrs. Seraphina Fairchild,” came the next name.

Anne-Marie didn’t glance at the feed. “Right on schedule.”

Her father stepped out first, immaculate, dignified, a silver tie bar catching the light. He nodded to the cameras with a diplomatic ease honed over decades. A statesman’s presence. Her mother followed in full Gothamite splendour—Seraphina Fairchild, vision of refinement, her gown custom-draped in translucent silk organza that shimmered like water under moonlight. Her jewels glittered with deliberate restraint, and her serene expression suggested she was the one bestowing honour by attending at all.

Upstairs, the penthouse hummed with restrained anticipation.

A string quartet played from the mezzanine—Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, notes spiralling softly through air perfumed with fresh-cut orchids and white garden roses. Gold-leafed vases overflowed with carefully arranged florals, and crystal sconces painted warm light across the navy velvet curtains framing Gotham’s skyline like a masterpiece. Every surface gleamed. Every detail whispered quiet wealth.

Art lined the walls—pieces chosen by her mother, Genevieve Luthor, years ago: a bold Kandinsky print, a lunar map etched in silver leaf gifted from Queen Industries, and an original black-and-white portrait of Amelia Earhart mid-laugh, tucked beside the piano.

The main foyer had already been arranged for cocktails and quiet conversation. Low-set silk-upholstered settees and carved wooden chairs stood beneath sprawling chandeliers, and silver trays of champagne flutes glided smoothly between murmured conversations. Waitstaff moved with the precision of a ballet troupe.

Yet amidst all this, Arabella kept the atmosphere light, her presence a balancing act of poise and warmth. This was her battlefield and her ballroom, and she moved through it like a seasoned general—gracious, composed, but always watching.

“Let’s just float through the greetings,” she said under her breath. “Smile, charm, move on.”

“We’ve trained for this,” Charlotte replied, straightening Artemis’s necklace gently.

“And we don’t leave each other’s sides,” Anne-Marie added, her voice low. “Especially not Artemis.”

“I’m fine,” Artemis muttered, tugging slightly at the side of her dress. But the truth was—she wasn’t. She looked stunning, regal even, in the emerald gown Arabella had given her, and her hair now matched her spirit—soft, strong, untamed—but everything around her screamed foreign territory.

Charlotte must’ve caught the flicker of discomfort. “You look perfect. Just follow our lead.”

And so, when the doors opened and the first wave of guests entered the penthouse, the girls stepped into the fray as one.

They moved through the room like they’d been born for it—Charlotte with her signature poise, laughing lightly as she shook hands with a media executive whose network owned half the airwaves on the eastern seaboard. She tilted her head just so, her tone warm, polished, charming in a way that felt genuine even when it wasn’t. Anne-Marie, ever the picture of quiet elegance, offered air kisses to a philanthropist’s wife draped in vintage Givenchy, murmuring something perfectly gracious that made the woman beam with conspiratorial delight.

Arabella walked a step ahead, every inch the hostess, radiating that easy Luthor confidence—grace wrapped in steel. She laughed on cue, touched arms lightly, and listened with attentive eyes as an ageing CEO spoke wistfully of galas past.

“You’re the spitting image of her, my dear,” said an older woman draped in silk and sapphires, her voice honeyed with affection. She reached out, placing a jewelled hand over Arabella’s wrist, rings catching the chandelier light like stars. “Your mother would be so proud.”

Arabella’s smile didn’t falter—not even a flicker. She looked the woman in the eye, luminous and unreadable, her expression soft with practised warmth.

“Thank you,” she said, voice low and poised, betraying nothing of the ache curling beneath her ribs.

And Artemis? She stayed close, always pulled in—never left behind. When someone asked who she was, Anne-Marie introduced her with grace and status: “Artemis Crock, our friend and guest of honour this evening.” When a particularly snide heiress made a remark about East Gotham accents, Charlotte steered them smoothly away before Artemis could throw a jab.

More names were announced. More guests poured in. Business moguls. Athletes. Artists. Military officials. Even a few off-duty diplomats from Metropolis and Central City.

The high society of Gotham was now fully gathered, laughing, drinking, marvelling at the night view and the lavish spread of caviar and canapés.

And yet, despite the glitter and wealth, Arabella’s eyes remained aware. She navigated it all with a dancer’s balance, smiling, charming, and making sure Artemis never once felt small. Not in a world that wanted to swallow her whole.

The orchestra swelled, and the party began to hum.

But the real show? The perfectly polished and powerfully aligned girls walked like the embodiment of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Not in how they looked, but in who they were.

Anne-Marie was Spring—an awakening in human form. She moved through the world with the lightness of petals in bloom and the quiet conviction of roots just beginning to deepen. Possibility shimmered around her like dew in morning light, and when she entered a room, conversations seemed to tilt toward hope. Not because she commanded the spotlight, but because she nurtured it in others. She made people feel like the best version of themselves was just within reach—and that she could already see it. There was something green and growing in her spirit, an instinctive faith in beginnings, in second chances, in the beautiful unknown.

Arabella was Summer—the golden hour just before the sun dips, when everything burns a little brighter. She was all intensity and intention, her presence rich and ripe like heat shimmering off stone. There was no uncertainty in her step, no wavering in her voice. She was the kind of warmth that could nourish or scorch, the kind of power that didn’t ask—it was. She didn’t need to announce herself to be known; her confidence bloomed quietly, like roses thriving on wrought iron. In her, everything felt vivid: ambition, loyalty, the aching want to protect what mattered. She was the season at its fullest—alive, unapologetic, and breathtaking.

Artemis was Fall—sharp air, steady ground, and the quiet power of change embraced, not feared. There was a kind of weathered beauty in her stance, like trees letting go of their leaves without losing their strength. She held herself like someone who’d been burned and walked through it, coming out with scars that made her stronger. Her honesty had edges, but never cruelty. She spoke when it counted, stood when it mattered, and moved through the world not to impress it, but to meet it on her own terms. She was resilience, renewal, the fierce grace of knowing what to hold onto and what to release.

Charlotte was Winter—elegant restraint, and a stillness that cut deeper than noise ever could. She carried herself like a legacy: poised, precise, and timeless. There was something regal in the cool, calm of her gaze, the way her silences seemed full of meaning, not emptiness. People leaned in when she spoke because they sensed something valuable was being offered. She wasn’t cold—she was clear. Unshaken by storms, untouched by panic. The kind of strength that endures, even when everything else breaks down. In a world that rushed to speak, Charlotte knew the power of waiting—of listening, of choosing. She wasn’t loud. She didn’t need to be.

They weren’t just a social circle.
Not just pretty faces or familiar names.

But a living symbol of what Gotham’s next generation looked like when sharpened by expectation and bonded by choice.

Chapter Text

Luthor Penthouse

September 28th – 20:01 EDT

Arabella had perfected the art of conversation a long time ago.

She knew how to lean in just enough to seem attentive, how to laugh with just the right cadence, how to steer a discussion without ever touching the wheel. So when the questions started, the usual ones, she met them with a smile that could’ve been scripted for royalty.

“Still fencing, Arabella?”

“Of course. Just came back from a bout last weekend. Still undefeated,” she replied smoothly, lying through her teeth. The older gentleman chuckled, impressed, before veering off into a story about his boarding school days and a bruised ego thanks to a sabre.

“Any beaux in the picture, Arabella?”

She gave a soft, composed laugh. “No,” she said, tone breezy, unbothered. “Not at the moment.” 

It was the safest answer. Clean, simple, and above all—uninspiring. No room for speculation, for whispers about who or why or what it meant that Lex Luthor’s daughter might be seeing someone. No reason for anyone to look too closely.

“My standards,” she added, voice light and smiling again, “are exceptionally high.”

But even as the conversation drifted forward, her mind snagged on the silence she left behind. Not at the moment.

It hadn’t felt like a lie. Just… a placeholder.

She remembered that afternoon—the table and the conversation they had. “That’s what we’re worried about. Not the gossip. Not the press. You. We’ve seen the way he looks at you lately. And how you look back.” She recalled what Anne-Marie had said.

The crowd laughed—light, polite. At that, Arabella blinked her thoughts away and resumed her full attention. A few women exchanged knowing glances, and a few men looked mildly scandalised. Arabella took another sip of champagne, the glass cool and delicate in her hand. She moved from conversation to conversation with ease, subtly redirecting anything that wandered too close to uncomfortable.

A board member’s wife asked about her dress. A tech mogul inquired about her plans for university. A city councilman’s daughter asked if she was really friends with Artemis Crock, with a tone that was half awe, half disbelief.

“She’s here, isn’t she?” Arabella replied simply, her gaze level. “And she’s more impressive than half the room combined.”

The woman blinked. Then nodded. “Fair.”

Arabella didn’t look back to check where Artemis was—she didn’t need to. She knew the girls were close. And Artemis, though not used to this world, was holding her own. Her presence was quiet but striking. She wasn’t fading—she was making people wonder.

A chime rang out.

Low. Clear. Intentional.

Heads turned as a hush swept through the penthouse. The string quartet softened their notes. The lights didn’t dim, but the atmosphere shifted—like a spotlight had landed without ever turning on.

Lex Luthor had arrived.

He didn’t need to command attention. He simply was the centre of it. Dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, he stepped into the heart of the gathering with a casual confidence that had been honed across decades of boardrooms, backdoor deals, and billionaire chess games.

“Thank you all for joining me,” he said, raising a glass of amber liquid. The hush turned reverent. “Tonight is a celebration. Not just a celebration of another year or another cycle around the sun, but of legacy. Of the future.”

He paused—just long enough to make people lean in.

“Gotham has always belonged to those bold enough to shape it,” Lex continued, his voice smooth as silk over steel. “And tonight, I look at this room and see architects. Innovators. Heirs to power. But most of all…” He glanced toward the girls—toward Arabella. “I see… evolution.”

Arabella met his eyes. Her expression unreadable.

“To old names,” he said, lifting his glass. “And new ones.” A subtle nod to Artemis.

There was polite laughter. Applause. Toasts murmured over crystal flutes and knowing nods.

But Arabella felt it—that familiar undercurrent, hidden behind every perfectly chosen word. Lex Luthor never said anything without a hidden meaning underneath it.

She offered him a polite, measured smile. Then turned, just slightly, so she was facing her friends again.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The moment Dick Grayson stepped into the Luthor penthouse ballroom, something subtle but unmistakable shifted—like the soft intake of breath before a crescendo.

The room was already dazzling: chandeliers cast golden light across gleaming marble, the low murmur of elegant conversation swirled with the delicate strains of a live string quartet. Crystal glasses sparkled like starlight, and laughter rang softly beneath the surface of high society polish. But when he entered, the atmosphere sharpened—slightly, almost imperceptibly—charged with the quiet attention reserved for those who didn’t demand it, but earned it just by existing.

Dick moved with practiced ease, each step confident without arrogance. The deep charcoal tuxedo he wore was perfectly tailored, the lines crisp against his frame, the silk of his lapels catching the light just enough to hint at luxury without screaming it. He didn’t need an introduction—he was one. Gotham’s golden boy, raised under the shadow of Bruce Wayne, now shining effortlessly in the world’s most curated circles.

Arabella saw him before anyone else did.

Their eyes met from across the ballroom—just for a second. A moment stitched into the fabric of the evening like a hidden thread. His expression was impeccably neutral: a polite, practised smile and a faint nod, nothing more. No teasing glint, no private smirk. Nothing anyone else would notice.

But she did.

Arabella’s spine lengthened unconsciously, shoulders drawing back with the poise of someone used to being watched—and wary of being seen. Her expression didn’t shift, but her eyes narrowed just a fraction, a shimmer of thought flickering behind them. She could still hear the conversation from earlier that day—Charlotte’s caution, Anne-Marie’s gentle prodding, her own careful responses.

“Nothing serious.”

She’d said it with conviction. She’d meant it.

And yet, as the music played on and the ballroom glittered around her, Arabella felt the echo of that glance linger—subtle as silk, sharp as a secret.

Arabella felt him before she saw him—a familiar warmth slipping into the space beside her like the easy return of a melody she hadn’t realised she’d been waiting for. A presence that didn’t announce itself but settled comfortably at her side, like he’d always belonged there. She turned, already smiling, the expression blooming effortlessly across her face.

“Fred!” she lit up, wrapping her arms around him in a tight, sunburst hug.

Around them, heads turned—not in scandalised curiosity, but fond awareness. Everyone in the room knew the story: childhood companions who had grown up in each other’s orbit, photographed at charity galas before they could even tie their own shoelaces. What the crowd was watching now wasn’t the reunion itself, but the spaces between it, looking for clues, glances, the telltale signs that lifelong friendship might have kindled into something else. That was what they cared about, what they always cared about: narrative.

“Bells, I’ve missed you terribly,” Fred said with a grin, the vowels of his British accent soft and sun-drenched, more pronounced than she remembered. He hadn’t changed much since she last saw him—just before Easter, when they’d snuck away from a formal dinner to devour gelato in the back garden of the Fairchild estate—but there was something different now. He stood taller, his shoulders squarer beneath the midnight blue of his dinner jacket, curls slightly longer, features a touch more defined. Older, somehow. Or maybe just more him.

Arabella nudged his shoulder with a teasing grin. “Look at you. I bet you were unbearable this summer. Total, what was it? Rake .”

He gave a modest, boyish chuckle, running a hand through his dark curls in mock sheepishness. “What can I say? Mother keeps insisting I’m ‘more man than boy’ now. Seventeen soon. Can you believe it?”

She gasped dramatically. “Seventeen? You’re practically ancient. Do I need to get you a cane?”

He raised an eyebrow, feigning offence. “Rude. And here I was about to ask how your romantic prospects are faring, Miss Luthor. Anyone special keeping you entertained in Gotham’s glittering concrete jungle?”

Arabella rolled her eyes with a scoff. “Oh god, no.”

Fred tilted his head, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “So, no one brave—or foolish—enough to attempt winning over Arabella Luthor? Scandalous.”

She folded her arms with mock pride. “Haven’t you heard? My standards are impossibly high. Ruthlessly so.”

A beat passed. Then, almost casually, Fred’s gaze flicked across the ballroom toward a certain dark-haired boy framed in soft chandelier light. “What about Grayson?”

Arabella blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “What about Dick?” she repeated, more cautiously than she’d intended.

Fred shrugged, all easy charm, but his eyes were sharp beneath the dishevelled charm. “I don’t know. I’ve just always picked up on something between you two. Like... tension. The flirty, unresolved kind.”

Arabella groaned, half-laughing as she pressed her fingers to her temples. “Oh my god. Not you, too. Is there a group chat I don’t know about? Anne-Marie already gave me the full lecture. Something about tragic endings and star-crossed fates and how we’re ‘playing with fire.’” She lowered her voice in dramatic imitation. “‘Stay away from Dick Grayson,’ she said. ‘You two are a cautionary tale waiting to happen. Gotham’s Capulet and Montague.’ She literally said that.”

Fred laughed, the sound low and familiar, though there was a flicker of something protective in his eyes, he didn’t bother hiding this time. “Classic Anne-Marie. Always five steps ahead and two pages into the tragedy.”

“Exactly!” Arabella threw up her hands. “It’s not that serious. That’s just how we’ve always been. It’s a game. It’s harmless.”

Fred studied her for a moment, his smile softening at the edges. “Still. Hate to admit it, but you two do look good together.”

She shot him a mock-glare. “Really, Freddie?”

He laughed again, full and unguarded, and she couldn’t help but join him. The sound of their shared laughter rippled through the velvet air of the ballroom like a thread from another lifetime, stitched into the present with a kind of ease only years of closeness could bring. In that moment, the opulence of the evening, the crystal, the couture, the quiet expectations—faded, and all that remained was the comfort of two old souls finding their rhythm again.

Just then, the gentle hum of conversation was interrupted by a chorus of giggles as Charlotte, Anne-Marie, and Artemis swept back into the circle like a breeze laced with perfume and mischief. Their laughter shimmered, bright and unguarded, the sound of shared amusement trailing behind them like the rustle of silk.

“You would not believe the conversation we just escaped,” Anne-Marie said, still half-laughing, eyes bright with scandalised delight. “Apparently, there’s a secret society within the school board dedicated to preserving Gotham Academy’s original blend of coffee beans, better than the ones at our secret stash.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes, smirking as she brushed a curl behind her ear. “He called it ‘liquid heritage.’ I thought Artemis was going to lose it when he solemnly compared it to the Magna Carta.”

Artemis grinned, shoulders shaking with the effort of stifling laughter. “It was either laugh or run.”

“Well, well,” Charlotte drawled, spotting Fred. Her gaze swept over him like sunlight through a stained-glass window, all affection and carefully veiled amusement. “If it isn’t Viscount Frederick Hastings. The English countryside has clearly done wonders for you. You’ve returned positively glowing.”

Fred bowed with exaggerated grace, one hand behind his back, the other flourished outward. “And Gotham, it seems, has been far less merciful to you, Miss Fontaine. I fear the city’s charms have hardened your heart.”

The group gasped in mock offence, clutching at imaginary pearls and shoulders, before dissolving into laughter. Even Artemis, who hadn’t yet learned the rhythm of their shared banter, let out a genuine laugh, soft and surprised.

Fred’s attention turned to her, eyes crinkling warmly at the corners. “You must be Artemis,” he said, stepping forward with the kind of quiet assurance that made introductions feel like reunions. He extended a hand, but as she reached for it, he caught hers gently and, with an effortless touch of theatre, pressed a courtly kiss to her knuckles.

Artemis blinked, slightly startled, then let out a half-laugh. “Okay, wow. That’s new.”

“The honour is mine,” Fred said sincerely, releasing her hand. “I’ve heard whispers of a girl in Modern Political Systems—sharp, uncompromising, keeps Lottie on her toes. That wouldn’t happen to be you, would it?”

She arched a brow, lips twitching with amused suspicion. “Depends who’s asking.”

He grinned. “Just Fred.”

She glanced sideways at Arabella, who gave a subtle nod of reassurance, and then back at him with a small smile. “Nice to meet you, Fred.”

There was no trace of condescension in his tone, no expectation hidden beneath the polished charm. Just warmth, like sunlight filtered through old glass—gilded, but never blinding.

Fred turned then to Anne-Marie, his face lighting up with something softer, more familiar. “It’s been too long.”

She stepped into his brief hug with the grace of old friends reuniting, her arms looping easily around him. “Far too long. We missed your dramatic flair.”

He pulled back with a wink. “Tragedy, romance, comedy—I’m versatile.”

Anne-Marie laughed, and for a moment, the whole group stood suspended in something warm and timeless: old friendships rediscovering their footing, new ones beginning to bloom. And above them, the chandeliers glittered like a sky full of watching stars.

Then came a shift—subtle, but unmistakable. A ripple in the atmosphere, like a held breath just before laughter.

“Do my eyes deceive me?” Fred’s voice rose with mock astonishment, his grin spreading wide. “Or is that Richard Grayson in the flesh?”

Heads turned instinctively. Dick had just disentangled himself from a crowd of diplomats and industry elites—silver-haired men and women who spoke in low tones about corporate mergers and international partnerships, all while clapping him on the back like a seasoned peer. He navigated their praise with the smooth finesse of someone who had grown up under crystal chandeliers, but it was clear his patience was wearing thin.

Then his gaze landed on Fred, and his whole posture changed.

“Fred!” he laughed, the weariness melting off his shoulders like fog beneath sunlight. He strode forward with ease, allowing the taller boy to pull him into a tight, back-slapping hug that spoke of summers spent in lake houses and trouble narrowly avoided.

“Still recovering from the great Easter incident, I hope?” Dick added with a grin that reached his eyes.

Fred groaned, releasing him. “You swore that would never be mentioned again.”

“Hey!” Anne-Marie interrupted, hand on her hip. “ My drunk cousin got blamed for that.”

“Hi, Dick,” Artemis said, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her voice was casual, but there was a flicker of something uncertain in her eyes, unsure of the role she played in this golden circle of childhood connections.

He turned to her with an easy smile, something softer lingering in the way he looked at her. “Hey, Artemis. You clean up well.” There was no teasing in it—just a genuine compliment, a brief acknowledgement of how different she looked tonight, far removed from the practical ponytails and tactical gear of Mount Justice.

She blinked, surprised, but smiled back. “Thanks.”

“Anne-Marie. Charlotte.” He greeted them next with a polite nod and a flash of that trademark Grayson grin—equal parts charm and mischief, effortlessly familiar.

Arabella waited.

He hadn’t come to her when he first entered. Hadn’t crossed the room, hadn’t sought her out. And for one brief second—long enough to feel like a minute—she wondered if this was the distance everyone had warned her about. Maybe he was playing it safe. Maybe they were back to pretending again.

But then—

“Arabella,” he said smoothly, and his eyes finally found hers. “Looking stunning as always.”

The corner of her mouth lifted. “Do tell me something I don’t already know, Grayson.”

He laughed, and there it was—something unspoken and unguarded that passed between them like a private note slid beneath a table. Not a wink, not a smirk, but a shared truth, just for them.

Charlotte and Anne-Marie exchanged a glance behind the rim of their glasses. Fred’s expression softened almost imperceptibly.

And just like that, the tension dissolved. The group drew together again, the space between them filled with laughter and old stories. They teased Fred for the way he used to mispronounce "croissant" as a child, dragged out a tale about Charlotte falling into a koi pond at a gala, and mock-argued over which of them had the most ridiculous prep school nickname.

They pulled Artemis into the chaos with open arms, explaining inside jokes without condescension, offering context like breadcrumbs. She didn't have to ask to be included—they simply did.

And to her surprise, it didn’t feel like she was intruding on something closed. It felt… natural. Like maybe, just maybe, there was a place for her in all this gleaming, complicated history.

Then—

“Arabella.”

The name sliced cleanly through the swell of laughter. The voice was low, smooth, perfectly measured—and unmistakable.

Lex Luthor.

He stood at the edge of their circle, impeccable in a sapphire suit that caught the ballroom lights like polished armour. His expression was composed, almost pleasant. But his eyes—they were sharp and watchful, scanning every detail of the moment like a general surveying a battlefield.

Then his gaze shifted.

“Richard,” he said, with that same glacial civility.

The temperature in the room dipped—not dramatically, but noticeably, like the first brush of winter air beneath a ballroom’s golden warmth. The easy chatter fell into a taut silence.

Dick straightened subtly, the lines of his posture adjusting in real time. His usual grin cooled by degrees. “Lex.”

Fred’s eyes flicked between them, something wary awakening behind his polite curiosity. “Happy Birthday, Mr Luthor,” he offered quickly, his voice light, as if injecting warmth could somehow dissolve the frost between titans.

Lex gave the briefest nod in acknowledgement. “There’s someone who’d like to meet the two of you,” he said, and though the words were unremarkable, they rang with subtle command. An unspoken expectation laced through every syllable.

Arabella’s spine lengthened instinctively. Gone was the ease, the sparkle in her eye, the gentle curl of her smile. In its place was the polished perfection she wore like silk: a mask of poise, practised and seamless. She turned to her friends just once, offering a glance that said, I’ll be back, even if she didn’t know when.

Around her, the others stilled. Anne-Marie’s hands folded neatly at her waist. Charlotte reached for her champagne without sipping. Fred watched Arabella like a knight studying a queen in a game he never quite understood. Even Artemis, so new to this world, went quiet, sensing the gravity of the moment.

Dick gave a small, neutral nod. “Lead the way,” he said, voice steady but unreadable.

Together, they followed Lex into the crowd.

The ballroom shimmered around them—crystal chandeliers casting halos over whispered conversations and clinking glasses. But as Arabella and Dick walked, side by side behind the man who had shaped half their world, it felt like stepping onto a different kind of stage. One where every movement was watched, every word weighted, and nothing— nothing —was ever just for show.

Two children of power. Threading their way through the thrum of high society like seasoned performers in a dance neither had chosen, but both had learned to master.

And though neither looked back, the air behind them buzzed with the silence of those left behind, still catching their breath.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The conversation in their small circle lulled as Lex stepped aside, revealing a woman in her late forties with a commanding presence. She wore a light peach gown, tailored to perfection, with subtle embroidery that shimmered under the chandelier light. Her eyes were sharp, intelligent eyes that had seen more than they let on.

Arabella and Dick exchanged a brief look, neither recognising her.

The woman smiled. “You two certainly draw a crowd,” she said smoothly, her accent refined but difficult to place—East Coast, maybe. “Forgive the intrusion. I’ve been hoping to meet you both all evening.”

Arabella composed herself with polite poise. “Of course. It’s a pleasure…” Her tone lifted slightly, expectantly, leaving room for a name.

The woman extended a graceful hand to Arabella first, then Dick. “Catherine Davenport. I’m Gotham Academy’s new Headmistress.”

Recognition sparked behind Arabella’s eyes. “Oh—Headmistress Davenport. I didn’t realise you were attending the gala.”

“Neither did I, honestly,” Dick added, flashing her a trademark grin. “But I suppose we should’ve expected to cross paths eventually. Gotham has a way of pulling everyone into the same room.”

Davenport laughed softly. “Well, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see the Academy’s star pupils in the flesh. I’ve heard such glowing reports—Arabella, your model UN team triumphs, your fencing accolades... and Richard, your early admissions record and philanthropic work through Wayne Enterprises are just so impressive. You’ve both set an intimidating bar.”

Dick gave a modest shrug, clearly enjoying the praise. “What can I say? Can’t expect anything short of perfection from my future wife.”

A beat of silence.

Arabella’s head turned toward him in slow motion. She fixed him with a blank, sharp-eyed side glance. She didn’t speak—just blinked once, with the chilling elegance of a practised socialite not dignifying a joke with more than a twitch of her mouth.

Lex, standing just behind them, turned his gaze to Dick with the faintest arch of a brow. His smile remained perfectly intact, but there was a subtle pause, as if filing the comment away for later consideration. Not disapproval, not amusement. Just interest, measured, and quietly noting every implication.

“Oh my,” Headmistress Davenport said with a soft chuckle, clearly entertained. “Well, I see the two of you have undeniable flair, if anything.”

Charlotte choked on her drink, and Anne-Marie had to stifle a snort. Fred grinned into his glass like he’d just witnessed a private joke come to life. Artemis just raised an eyebrow, whispering to Fred, “Is that normal?”

“Depends on the day,” Fred whispered back.

“I do hope,” Davenport continued, “you’ll both consider visiting the younger years sometime soon. The impressionable students could use role models like you. Perhaps you might speak at the next student leadership assembly?”

Arabella smoothly recovered and offered a warm, diplomatic smile. “We’d be honoured, Headmistress.”

Dick nodded. “Anything for the kids.”

Davenport gave one final smile before moving off into the crowd, drawn away by another well-dressed donor.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Arabella turned to Dick, tone low. “ Future wife? Seriously?”

He gave her a nonchalant look, completely unfazed. “You looked like you needed help dodging the awkward praise.”

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, but there was a flicker of a smile tugging at her lips.

“And yet,” he said with a wink, “you’re still standing here.”

Charlotte leaned over toward Anne-Marie, whispering, “Well, that didn’t take long.”

Fred just grinned. “You should’ve seen this exact dynamic back when we were little. Nothing’s changed.”

The group resumed their casual rhythm of banter and inside jokes, the tension from earlier dissolving into warmth and laughter. Artemis found herself surprisingly at ease among them, even as she struggled to understand the chaotic, tangled web that was Arabella Luthor and Dick Grayson.

Then, cutting back into the hum of murmured conversation and clinking glasses, Lex’s voice resurfaced—precise, clear, and commanding in its calmness.

“Arabella, it’s time for our dance.”

The words fell like a gavel. Not a request, not even an invitation, but an inevitability — as rehearsed and rigid as the waltz itself. The annual father-daughter dance: a long-standing staple of Lex Luthor’s birthday galas. To the watching world, it was tradition. A warm moment of familial affection, reserved each year like clockwork. But to Arabella, it had always been something else entirely. A display. A performance. A living portrait of a bond that never really truly existed.

Lex extended his arm toward her with the elegance of a man born into power. Smooth. Measured. Unassailable.

Arabella stepped forward, her heels gliding over the marble with the grace she’d been drilled in since childhood. Her smile was precisely what it needed to be: poised, gentle, just bright enough to disarm the watching crowd. And entirely, achingly hollow beneath the surface.

“Of course, Father.”

The room responded like clockwork. Conversations tapered into whispers. Guests edged closer to the heart of the penthouse, forming a loose ring around the polished dance floor. Glasses were set down. Phones were lifted with discreet reverence, their cameras already angling for the perfect shot.

The string quartet began to play — a soft, sweeping Strauss number, chosen no doubt by one of Lex’s aides for its elegance and restraint. The first note curled into the air like smoke.

Arabella placed her hand in his. Lex’s other hand settled at the small of her back — practised, proper. They took their first steps in flawless synchrony, gliding with mechanical precision over the cool marble.

To anyone watching, it was immaculate.

The daughter of Gotham’s most powerful man. Her father, composed and dignified, guided her through the steps like he’d done since she was a child. A fairy tale waltz for the upper crust — pristine, effortless, picture-perfect.

And not an ounce of it was real.

They danced in silence. Not because there was nothing to say, but because neither trusted the moment enough to fill it with truth. Arabella’s face remained calm, almost serene, even as her thoughts drifted behind her carefully painted eyes. She studied Lex with the vague detachment of an anthropologist examining a subject through glass. His features were set, as unreadable as ever. Not quite stern, not quite fond. Just… curated.

She exhaled slowly, measured and silent, as Lex led her into another turn.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to join you for breakfast this morning,” he said, finally, his tone light. A courteous, almost gentle murmur. The kind of apology that sounded sincere only because it had been practised to perfection.

Arabella tilted her head, just slightly. “I’m sorry, I even expected you to show up.”

Lex’s brow lifted — just enough to register the jab.

“Winston did inform you I was occupied with business matters, did he not?”

“He did,” she replied, her voice wrapped in silk and steel. “You’ve been ‘occupied with business matters’ for the last three years. Vlatava. London. Metropolis. And half of Europe, really.”

He didn’t respond. Not with words, anyway. Just that same smooth smile — a ghost of emotion that looked affectionate to outsiders, but to her felt more like a well-oiled mechanism. A social reflex.

They danced on, the quartet sweeping them into the final few phrases. As the music began to dissolve into its closing notes, Arabella’s spine remained impossibly straight, her hand light in his, her expression the very model of debutante grace.

The last chord held for a breath, then faded into silence.

Polite applause followed, a ripple of appreciation from the crowd. The illusion had worked. The picture had been painted. And like all illusions, it was ephemeral — beautiful, untouchable, and utterly false.

Arabella stepped back first.

Her hands slipped from Lex’s like autumn leaves caught in a breeze — weightless, quiet, inevitable.

“Happy birthday, Father,” she said, the warmth gone now, her voice like frost across glass.

She didn’t wait for a reply.

Turning on her heel, she stepped back into the crowd, scanning the sea of sequins and tailored suits for something real — Charlotte’s wide-eyed concern, Anne-Marie’s disarming chatter, Artemis’s dry wit. Someone who saw her, not the illusion.

Behind her, Lex Luthor remained at the centre of the room, the crowd flowing around him like water around stone. Surrounded by admirers, well-wishers, allies, and enemies.

And utterly, unmistakably alone.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Arabella found Anne-Marie and Artemis standing near the floor-length Titian, its gilded frame catching the low amber lighting of the penthouse.

“Well, that was absolutely adorable,” Anne-Marie beamed as Arabella approached. “My favourite father-daughter duo, as always.”

Artemis shifted slightly where she stood — subtle, almost imperceptible, but not to Arabella. The kind of shift that came from discomfort. She could guess why. Artemis was likely turning over the fact that Lex Luthor, of all people, had just waltzed across the floor with such poise and affection, and that Arabella — calm, elegant Arabella — hadn’t batted an eyelid. It made sense, of course, Arabella didn’t know who he really was– the League’s greatest foe, the Light’s closest ally.

Except she did. Very much so.

“You two were…” Artemis began, clearly grasping for the right word. “So graceful.”

Arabella turned to her with a soft, appreciative smile. “Thank you.” 

She scanned the room quickly. “Where’s Charlotte?”

“Off dancing with Fred,” Anne-Marie replied, raising her champagne flute with a cheeky smile before taking a rather illegal sip. “And before you ask, Dick’s also busy charming some poor old woman on the dance floor. Though to be fair, she seems to be enjoying herself. It’s that annoyingly perfect Wayne charm.”

Artemis raised an eyebrow, curious. “Are Charlotte and Fred, like… a thing?” 

She bit her tongue just after asking, suddenly unsure if she’d overstepped. Arabella, however, didn’t seem remotely bothered.

“Yes and no,” she replied with a slight shrug, reaching for a canapé from the tray that had just passed. “It’s complicated. Mostly unspoken. They’ve been circling each other for years.”

“Sounds suspiciously like two other idiots I know,” Anne-Marie muttered under her breath to Artemis.

Artemis fought to suppress her laugh.

“I heard that,” Arabella said without looking up, though the dryness in her tone suggested she wasn’t entirely annoyed.

Anne-Marie grinned. “Just saying, some people do love their complicated slow burns.”

Arabella rolled her eyes, but the edges of her lips quirked upward. She leaned back slightly, eyes flicking across the ballroom to where Frederick and Charlotte danced, poised, polished, and practically glowing under the soft chandeliers.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Across the ballroom, Richard Grayson moved in seamless time with the gentle cadence of the waltz, his posture immaculate, steps poised. His dance partner was not some blushing debutante but a silver-haired society dame draped in navy silk and enough diamonds to make Cartier weep. Her smile was all polish and amusement — the kind worn by women who had outlasted empires and knew precisely what they were doing.

“You waltz far too well for someone your age, Mr Grayson,” she said with a playful arch of her brow.

He offered a grin that had undone socialites and secret identities alike. “I’ve had a very strict upbringing. Can't exactly let down the family name, can I?”

She chuckled, her gloved hand tightening gently in his. “A charmer and a dancer. No wonder half the young ladies in this room are pretending not to stare.”

“Wouldn’t say half, ma’am,” he replied smoothly. “I’d say all .”

His partner laughed aloud this time. “And what about you? Whose problem are you, Mr Grayson?”

Dick's gaze flicked across the ballroom, subtle but deliberate, landing briefly on Arabella, standing poised beneath the Titian painting with Artemis and Anne-Marie. Her posture was impeccable, her smile measured — and yet, there was something distant in her expression. A thought she hadn’t let go of.

He twirled her gently, the movement effortless, elegant, before catching her again with perfect timing as the quartet reached the final bars. His voice was light, but behind the sparkle of his eyes was a glint of something quieter, guarded.

Dick’s smile didn’t falter, but something behind his eyes shifted — just a flicker. “Oh, I tend to be everyone’s problem eventually.”

From the edge of the floor, Lex Luthor stood watching. Not with suspicion, nor with ire — just cool interest.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

As the final, lilting notes of Johann Strauss II’s Rosen aus dem Süden melted into silence, Richard bowed low with the effortless grace of someone born into performance. Every movement was deliberate, each gesture honed through years of expectation and etiquette. Across from him, the dignified lady curtsied in return—elegant and precise, her gown sweeping the marble like a sigh. Around them, a soft tide of murmured admiration rippled through the crowd, the kind of quiet awe reserved for picture-perfect moments in a Gotham society event.

Just beyond the gilded borders of the dancefloor, Charlotte and Frederick slowly drifted apart, their joined hands falling away with reluctant elegance. Something lingered in the space between them—a flicker of something unspoken, wistful and raw, glinting just beneath Charlotte’s carefully held expression. She turned toward Anne-Marie and Artemis, shoulders straightening, while Frederick lingered a heartbeat longer, watching her go before veering toward Dick with a look halfway between a smirk and concern.

“So,” Frederick murmured as he fell into step beside him, voice low and conspiratorial, “are you going to ask her to dance, or are you planning to spend the rest of the evening trying to burn holes through her with your eyes?”

Dick choked on the tail end of a laugh, caught red-handed. He’d tried to be subtle—kept up the routine of casual charm, half-hearted teasing—but nothing about tonight felt routine. Not after the glance she’d given him during the exchange with the new Headmistress. That almost-smile. That shared flicker of understanding. And not with that dress.

It wasn’t even something he could name exactly—just a feeling, crawling electric under his skin.

Still, he managed to play it off with a huffed exhale and a crooked grin. Then, before he could think himself out of it, he moved.

The crowd parted around him in hazy silhouettes and soft colour, all velvet tuxedos and champagne laughter. And then there she was.

Arabella stood just off-centre from the dancefloor, caught in a quiet exchange with Anne-Marie, head tilted slightly, her fingers absentmindedly brushing the stem of a glass she hadn’t touched. Her gown shimmered like something out of a dream: layers of diaphanous silver tulle cascading around her like mist over moonlight, the fabric whispering as it caught the light with every breath. Golden embroidery unfurled from her waist in a sunburst of threadwork—delicate and opulent, almost alive—gilding her silhouette with a radiance that felt unearthly.

It was the kind of dress that didn’t just wear beauty—it commanded it. She looked like the heart of some distant constellation, radiant and untouchable.

Yet somehow, achingly real.

The jewellery she wore was minimal, understated—just as he knew she liked it. A pair of diamond drop earrings, a matching necklace with a single pale stone that rested just above her collarbone. Nothing flashy. Nothing loud. But they caught the low light in a way that made the rest of the world feel dimmer by comparison.

Dick stopped in front of her, breath caught somewhere in his throat, and held out his hand, palm up.

“May I have this dance?” he asked, his voice more formal than it usually was with her—quieter, steadier. No teasing edge. Just sincerity.

Arabella looked up, and for a second, the corners of her mouth twitched like she might laugh it off. But something in her shifted—just the slightest breath of recognition. Of feeling. Of something more.

She hesitated. Only for a moment.

Then her fingers found his, delicate and unhurried, the touch soft and certain.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Dick led her to the centre of the ballroom with the same quiet confidence he wore in a fight—measured, deliberate, hiding the faint tension in his jaw. The moment their shoes touched the edge of the polished floor, a hush seemed to settle, like the room collectively inhaled. A soft breeze from the open terrace stirred the curtains, but even that felt choreographed to the moment.

They assumed the formal waltz position in a kind of reverent stillness, the space between them charged. Arabella’s arm lifted with the languid elegance of someone born to such things, her hand curving over his shoulder as if it belonged there, fingertips brushing the collar of his suit. Their other hands found one another mid-air—his calloused fingers closing gently around her gloved ones, just enough pressure to anchor her. Her grip was cool, steady. Perfect.

His other hand hesitated, suspended in the charged space between them. And then— there —he rested it just at the small of her back, precisely where her gown dipped low and skin met air. His palm barely touched her. Barely. But the sensation jolted through him all the same. Her skin was warm. Silken. Real. He exhaled softly, not even realising he’d been holding his breath.

Then the music began anew.

Chopin’s Waltz in A minor, played with a tenderness that ached. The string quartet coaxed each note from their instruments like a secret, letting the melody unfurl through the room in slow, romantic spirals. The tempo was languid. Intimate. Designed for whispers and half-glances and hands that lingered longer than they ought to.

They began to move.

Their steps were effortless, learned in childhood but forgotten until now—until her gown brushed against his shoes, until their bodies found that rhythm again like it had never left. The dance pulled them closer than conversation ever could. They turned together in slow revolutions, as though the marble beneath them had become a dreamscape, gilded and golden and half a breath away from shattering.

The world, such as it was, vanished.

Conversations dwindled to murmurs. Champagne flutes paused mid-air. Heads tilted. Gotham’s elite could not help but watch as its two heirs moved in perfect synchrony, like something out of a forgotten novel, like a painting that had come to life. Around them, the glittering whirl of gowns and black tie receded, until they were the still point in a turning world. A constellation in the shape of two people. As if time itself bowed its head and let them have this.

“You look beautiful tonight,” Dick murmured, the words almost lost beneath the rise of strings. Then softer, more honest: “You are beautiful.”

It wasn’t a line. Not with that voice. Not with the way his gaze held hers like he was trying to memorise her.

Arabella met his eyes, unflinching. She searched his face the way one might read a book for the second time—already knowing the ending, but still hoping for something new between the lines. His expression was open, stripped of the usual slyness. He meant it.

And he was right.

She was radiant.

The gown curved along her tall, willowy form like smoke made tangible. The silver layers drifted around her legs in ghostlight swirls with every step, catching fire under the chandeliers. That golden embroidery—like sunbeams stitched into silk rose from her waist and wrapped around her torso in elegant arcs, drawing the eye to where the fabric dipped at her back and collarbone. Her skin gleamed under the light, smooth and aglow, like she’d stepped from the painting that hung in the Luthor estate’s music room. Her hair had been gathered into a deliberately undone updo, soft tendrils framing her face and throat. A few strands curled behind her ear, almost delicate enough to touch.

Her lashes cast faint shadows when she blinked. Her lips—full, faintly maroon—parted ever so slightly, and for a heartbeat, Dick looked at them instead of her eyes.

She was always the best-dressed. Without trying. Without needing to. Gotham’s golden girl, even when dressed in starlight.

From the moment Dick had stepped into the Luthor penthouse, sidestepping cameras and security guards, he had seen her. Not just noticed— seen. She hadn’t looked at him directly then. Not really. Just a nod, a polite smile. But she’d felt him watching.

He’d watched her drift through the glittering crowd with trained charm, laughing softly at the right moments, knowing which guests to flatter and which to ignore. The way she moved—like she belonged in this palace of marble and money—but didn’t care to. She was luminous, elusive. Gotham’s summer, warm and too bright to touch.

“You look rather handsome yourself,” Arabella replied at last, her voice smooth and warm, like poured honey. A smile curved at the corners of her lips, faint but genuine.

She had noticed—he was taller now. Just slightly. Enough to meet her gaze without having to glance up. For the first time, they were eye to eye. The moment caught her.

They were being watched. Cameras. Classmates. Anne-Marie and Charlotte whispering across the room. But none of that seemed to matter, not when his hand curved around her back just a bit more, his fingers subtly shifting, just enough to graze her bare skin. Not enough to be indecent. Just enough to feel like a secret.

“Where’s the emergency intervention now?” Anne-Marie whispered, wineglass tucked beneath her chin.

Charlotte didn’t answer. She was staring, unabashed. Her hands were clasped so tightly around her clutch, the metal creaked.

Across the room, Artemis had gone utterly still. She blinked once, slowly, as though unsure if she was watching a ballroom waltz or the climax of one of her mum’s period dramas—the kind with declarations at midnight and longing in the rain. Fred raised a brow from beside the punch table, watching Dick like he was trying to solve a mystery.

But the dancers didn’t see any of it.

They only saw each other.

As the final lingering note of Chopin’s waltz dissolved into silence, the ballroom hung in a moment of collective stillness, as if no one dared to move and risk shattering the delicate enchantment that had wrapped itself around the dancers. The chandeliers glinted like stars overhead, casting their golden light across marble and crystal, and in that breathless pause, it felt as though even time had chosen to stop and watch.

Then, gracefully, Arabella stepped back into a flawless curtsy—her gown fanning around her like liquid silver—as Dick mirrored her with a low, practiced bow, one arm folded neatly behind his back. The applause that followed swelled in soft ripples, restrained and elegant, yet unmistakably impressed. It was the kind of applause that didn’t merely acknowledge performance, but presence.

Murmurs fluttered through the crowd like restless birds.

“She dances like Genevieve,” someone whispered.
“And—he’s grown into Bruce’s shadow, hasn’t he?” said another, barely audible over the clink of champagne glasses.

Even Lex Luthor joined in the clapping, his measured rhythm slightly out of sync with the rest of the room. His expression betrayed nothing—save for the sharp, unwavering scrutiny fixed on the pair of them. He didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. He simply watched.

As the spell fractured and the crowd turned back to their own conversations, Dick exhaled, a small huff of air slipping between parted lips as they stepped off the dance floor. He reached up to adjust the collar of his suit, but his voice was light with humour.

“So…” he began, the corner of his mouth tilting up. “Did I ‘outwaltz every trust fund baby within a ten-mile radius’?”

Arabella’s lips curled into a quiet laugh, the sound soft and low, meant for him alone. “I’m afraid you did. It’s embarrassing, really. You’ve set the standard far too high.”

“I’m honestly shocked I didn’t leave with bruised toes,” he teased, leaning slightly closer. “Remember that charity ball two years ago? My poor foot still hasn’t forgiven you.”

Arabella groaned, rolling her eyes with theatrical exasperation. “I recall. I was twelve… and terrified. I nearly tripped on your stupid cufflinks.”

“You did,” Dick said, grin widening. “Twice.”

She mock-glared at him, but there was fondness there—something old and familiar and only shared in quiet moments like these. The din of voices and laughter faded around them, and for a brief second, they stood in a pocket of stillness once more. The room bustled on, but they didn’t move.

Arabella’s gaze drifted toward the far end of the room, where their friends lingered near the dessert table, already beginning to conspire. She gave a gentle nod in that direction.

“We should probably go back.”

“Yeah,” Dick agreed softly.

But neither of them took a step.

Then, like a signal from the universe itself, a delicate ting-ting-ting rang out—a spoon tapped against the rim of a champagne flute. Heads turned, laughter hushed. The Mayor of Gotham had just mounted the stage, shuffling a stack of note cards with slightly shaking hands, his face still healing from bruises left by Guerrilla Gorilla's attack.

Before he could speak, a bright voice cut across the lull.

“Rooftop, anyone?” Anne-Marie asked sweetly, raising her glass just high enough for it to seem innocent.

Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and Charlotte stifled a knowing laugh behind her flute. Fred didn’t even bother pretending—he was already moving.

It was their unspoken tradition. The rooftop. Their sacred little rebellion against the pomp and pretence of Gotham galas. While the adults fawned over honourable mayors and board members, the heirs and heiresses slipped away for real conversation, stolen champagne, and the kind of laughter that didn’t need to be polite.

Artemis, already in motion, cast a sidelong glance toward Lex. Her expression was flat, sharp. That the man had invited the mayor, knowing full well the attack was part of a plan he’d helped orchestrate, was beyond galling. It was insulting. Calculated.

Arabella caught the glance. Her face didn’t change—no flicker of emotion, no sharp intake of breath. But something in her shoulders tightened.

She said nothing. Only reached for Charlotte’s arm with effortless grace and gave the faintest tilt of her chin toward the tall double doors flanked by private security.

The guards didn’t stop them. Of course not.

She belonged here. This was her kingdom. But the rooftop was her escape.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

They made their way through the velvet-curtained hallway, heels muffled on the plush carpet, voices low with laughter and relief. The transition from the warm hum of the ballroom to the crisp night air was like slipping into another world.

The rooftop greeted them in silence—high above the city, the noise reduced to a soft, distant thrum. Gotham’s skyline unfolded around them like a storybook rendered in steel and smoke, lights blinking like stars caught in scaffolding. The wind tugged at their hair and gowns, carrying with it the faint scent of rain on concrete.

Artemis stepped to the edge, hands gripping the cool stone of the balustrade. “Remind me why I let you drag me to this thing?”

“Because you love us,” Charlotte teased, already kicking off her shoes and setting them neatly by the rooftop entrance.

Anne-Marie, always more graceful than rebellious, smoothed her dress and settled beside Arabella, who had wandered to the far corner. The city lights kissed the fabric of her gown, silver and soft, catching every flicker as if the stars themselves had stitched it.

“This view never gets old,” Arabella murmured, the first words she’d spoken since leaving the ballroom.

“No,” said Charlotte, joining her. “It feels different this time.”

“How so?”

Charlotte tilted her head and shrugged. “Maybe it’s the night air.”

“Yeah, the good old Gotham City pollution,” Dick grinned as he finally stepped onto the rooftop with Frederick, the cool air brushing through his hair, messing it up a little. A faint breeze carried with it the scent of night jasmine from the penthouse terrace garden—some half-hearted attempt at elegance battling against the ever-present tang of smog.

“Or maybe,” Anne-Marie said, her voice touched with something fond and wistful, “it’s because, for the first time in what feels like forever, we’re all here again—Frederick home from England, and Artemis beside us, as if she’s always belonged.”

Arabella smiled softly, her breath visible in the night air. No one said anything more; there was no need to.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The rooftop had always felt like a sanctuary carved from the noise and polish below—a place where Gotham’s gilded chaos softened, and the world fell briefly out of focus. Strings of warm golden lights crisscrossed overhead like constellations suspended by invisible threads, casting a honeyed glow over sleek stone tiles and designer heels. The air up here was thinner, clearer. More honest.

Beyond the balustrade, Gotham stretched into forever—an endless sprawl of iron and light. Towering skyscrapers jutted into the charcoal sky like jagged obsidian teeth, their windows glinting like glassy eyes. The faint hum of traffic rose from below, a lullaby of sirens and engines and distant horns. From up here, the city looked less like a monster and more like a living, breathing thing—tired, flickering, resilient.

Charlotte’s hand brushed Frederick’s sleeve, a subtle tug, and she nodded toward the far corner where the stone railing dipped lower and the wind whispered a little louder. “Come on,” she murmured with a smile that didn’t demand anything—just offered.

He followed without question.

They reached the edge together, and Charlotte leaned her forearms against the cool marble, her hair catching the breeze as she stared out at the glittering horizon. Her posture was casual, but her silence was heavy with things unsaid.

“You missed a lot,” she said at last, voice airy, but each word chosen.

Fred didn’t try to deny it. He just stood beside her, close enough for their sleeves to brush, warm and steady.

“I know,” he said simply. “But I’m here now. That’s what counts, right?”

She turned to him, the fairy lights above catching in her eyes, turning them into molten gold. “It’s a start.”

He chuckled, a low, embarrassed sound. Then, like muscle memory, his fingers found hers. No fanfare, no fuss. Just a quiet seeking out. Charlotte didn’t flinch or pull away. She just let him hold her hand.

At the opposite side of the rooftop, Anne-Marie had drifted to the balustrade with Artemis trailing beside her. Artemis’s arms were crossed, more out of instinct than any true defensiveness—a posture left over from too many nights expecting to be cut down, not invited in.

“I still can’t believe you survived Ms. Pritchard’s debate round,” Anne-Marie said, mock solemn. “That woman once made someone cry over their stance on trade tariffs.”

Artemis snorted, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “To be fair, that guy thought Monaco was a type of cheese.”

Anne-Marie laughed—genuinely, brightly—and Artemis blinked in mild surprise at how unguarded it sounded. It was rare to hear laughter like that in Gotham. Rarer still to be the cause of it.

“I’m glad you came tonight,” Anne-Marie said, quieter now. Her eyes stayed trained on the city, but her meaning was clear.

“Me too,” Artemis replied after a beat. “Didn’t think I would, but... I’m glad I did.”

Elsewhere, Arabella and Dick lingered near the edge of the rooftop, slightly apart from the others. They weren’t hiding, but the space around them felt quieter, more private—like the skyline belonged to just them.

Below, the city pulsed in soft red and white—traffic streaming through veins of concrete, buildings blinking like distant warning lights. Gotham wasn’t beautiful the way Metropolis was. It didn’t gleam. It glowed. Dimly, stubbornly. Like a candle in the dark that refused to be snuffed out.

Arabella’s gown shimmered with every movement, the silver fabric catching light like morning dew caught on spider silk. Beside her, Dick had shed his jacket somewhere by the stairwell, his bow tie undone and hanging around his neck, the top button of his shirt loose. His hands stayed buried in his pockets, shoulders swaying lazily with the rhythm of his own thoughts.

“You ever think about what it’d be like to just... escape from all of it?” he asked, voice low, not looking at her.

The wind stirred around them, catching at the loose strands of Arabella’s hair and tossing them gently across her cheeks. She didn’t brush them away. Just stood still, face unreadable in the amber rooftop light.

“No,” she said softly. “I think about what it would mean to stay.”

Dick turned to look at her then, and she met his gaze.

And in that look, barely a second, fleeting and fragile, was everything they couldn’t say aloud. All the weight and wonder of two lives wrapped in secrets and expectations, bound by something they didn’t quite have the words for yet.

Below, Gotham lived on—grim and glowing, impossible and infinite.

But here on the rooftop, suspended in warmth and wind and quiet glances, they stood in a moment made only for them. A moment they could almost believe might last.

Arabella let her eyes drift shut for just a heartbeat.

She wished it could last forever.

Chapter Text

Mount Justice

October 1st – 18:31 EDT

The sharp sound of grunts echoed through the cavernous main room of Mount Justice.

Kaldur and Robin were sparring intensely. Robin’s flurry of acrobatic kicks met Kaldur’s grounded, deliberate counterstrikes. The two moved like clockwork: flips, back handsprings, and feints performed with fluid precision. It was a graceful dance of opposites—agility versus strength.

On the sidelines, Wally and Artemis observed with interest, while Nyx mirrored the entire sparring session using her shadows: a shadow-Robin and a shadow-Kaldur tangled beside the originals, mimicking each movement with eerie perfection. Wally let out a laugh; Artemis smirked, folding her arms with an amused shake of her head.

Further off, Captain Marvel leaned against a pillar, munching on a chocolate bar, while Zatara watched the group with a more reserved curiosity.

As the final move of the spar ended with Kaldur flipping Robin onto the mat with a heavy thud. 

The bay doors opened.

M’gann and Connor entered with Wolf padding loyally at their side. The pair were smiling at each other, lost in their own little world, their fingers brushing unconsciously as they walked.

"You do know they’re a couple, right?" Robin leaned over and whispered to Kaldur, mischief glittering in his grin.

“I suspect I knew before they did,” Kaldur replied calmly, arms crossed, the trace of a smile pulling at his mouth.

“Should we tell them?” Robin asked, nodding towards Wally, Artemis, and Nyx, who had now directed her shadows to sneakily snatch Captain Marvel’s chocolate bar. The animated shadows offered it to Wally like a tribute, which he gratefully accepted.

“It is not our place,” Kaldur replied lowly.

The trio strolled over, Wally still chewing on the stolen snack.

“So, if Zatara’s our babysitter of the week,” Wally began, raising an eyebrow, “why’s he still here?” He gestured to Captain Marvel. “And why was he eating my snacks?”

Just then, the rest of the team turned to see Captain Marvel looking around in confusion, patting his empty hand like he was sure the bar had just been there.

[Recognised: Batman, 02.]

The Zeta Tube flared again as Batman stepped into Mount Justice, all cape and quiet menace.

“Computer. National news,” he ordered crisply.

A holographic screen lit up, casting a blue glow as the team gathered to watch.

"The initial attack was short-lived," a blonde reporter narrated gravely, "but Metropolis was only granted a temporary reprieve. And despite the intervention of Superman and the Justice League, there appears to be no end in sight."

Footage showed towering, vine-covered behemoths wreaking havoc—tendrils wrapped around buildings, thorns like daggers, sweeping with deliberate force. The League fought back valiantly, but it was clear: this was no ordinary threat.

“Should we get out there?” Robin asked, already keyed up.

“No. The League will have it under control soon enough. That’s not why I’m here,” Batman replied. “According to intel you obtained, Sportsmaster provided Cadmus’s Blockbuster formula to Kobra.”

“Who then fused it with Bane’s Venom to make Kobra Venom,” Wally added quickly.

“Which the Brain used to make his animal army,” Nyx said, folding her arms.

“And upgrade Wolf,” Superman added, ruffling Wolf’s fur affectionately.

“The Brain also used inhibitor collars,” M’gann said, “like the ones at Belle Reve.”

“Batman,” Artemis asked, brows furrowed, “is it possible that thing in Metropolis is juiced up on Kobra Venom too?”

“I had Green Lantern run a spot analysis,” Batman replied. “The vine’s cellulose contains traces of a Kobra Venom variant.” As he spoke, he pulled up various molecular diagrams.

“These are no coincidences,” Kaldur said grimly. “Villains from entirely different circles cooperating on a global scale.”

Robin summoned a second holographic interface, his fingers flying across the keys. “Exactly. We’re looking at a coordinated effort.”

“More than that,” Batman said. “We’re looking at a secret society of supervillains. And the attack on Metropolis… was just the beginning.”

Images of other cities appeared in rapid succession—Gotham, Paris, Star City, Taipei. Each screen showed chaos.

Then, suddenly, all the holograms went static.

“Dude,” Wally said, blinking.

“It’s not me,” Robin muttered, hands flying as he tried to re-establish the feed. “Someone’s hijacking the satellite signal. All of them.”

The static dissolved into the Joker’s face, grinning far too wide, far too still.

Nyx’s heart stopped for a beat. That smile. Unnatural. Deliberate. He leaned into the camera with a knock, knock, knock.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we interrupt your regularly scheduled mayhem to bring you this very important announcement…” He flicked a knife open with flair and turned the camera to show the villains flanking him.

“…from the Injustice League, ha-ha-ha!”

“We are responsible for the attacks on your cities,” Count Vertigo intoned. “If you wish to save them, you will deliver ten billion U.S. dollars. Details have been sent to the United Nations. There is no time limit. But the longer your governments delay…”

“…the more fun we get to have our jollies!” The Joker screamed gleefully, then broke into frenzied laughter as the screen once again cut to static.

Batman pressed two fingers to his comm. “Roger that, Aquaman. The UN is preparing the ransom as a fallback… but it won’t come to that.”

Robin paused the feed, fingers moving with sharp precision as he zoomed in. The screen adjusted with a quiet whirr, each figure sharpening into focus. One by one, a red target bloomed over each villain, circling them like a hunter marking prey, the glow pulsing faintly in the dim light of the cave.

“Count Vertigo. Joker. Poison Ivy. Ultra-Humanite. Atomic Skull. Black Adam. Wotan. Seven big-league villains.” He scowled. “Probably behind nearly everything we’ve faced.”

“There’s your secret society,” Wally muttered.

“Not so secret anymore,” Nyx said, low and quiet, her tone caught somewhere between steel and smoke. The words slipped out like a thought half-formed, as if she wasn’t sure whether it was a warning, observation… or the beginning of a fear she hadn’t yet named.

“Perhaps after India, they assumed we’d figure it out,” Kaldur said. “And no longer saw the need to hide.”

“Yeah? That was their mistake.” Wally cracked his knuckles, his eyes lit with excitement. “Let’s go kick some plant-creature ass.”

“The League will deal with the plants,” Batman interjected. “I have a different job for this team.”

“Oh man—ow!” Wally yelped, recoiling as he rubbed his shoulder where Artemis had just smacked him—hard enough to sting through the fabric of his suit. He shot her a look, half-offended, while she smirked with no trace of remorse.

“With the plants attacking so many cities simultaneously, there must be a central control system,” Batman explained. “Your mission is to locate and destroy it.”

“You realise what you’re really asking of them?” Zatara asked, stepping forward.

“They’re ready,” Batman said firmly.

“Ready? Ready for what ?” Wally complained—only to get another hit from Artemis.

“ Wally,” she said pointedly, “if the big guns are taking on the plants, who do you think we’ll be fighting?”

Wally looked up at the frozen image of the Injustice League, the screen casting a sharp light across his face. The villains loomed in still-frame—each one captured mid-motion, expressions twisted in malice or cold indifference. His brows knit slightly as he took them in, the weight of what they were up against settling over his features.

“…Ohhh.”

“I trust you’re correct,” Zatara said to Batman.

“And I trust you can find them,” Batman replied.

Zatara nodded. “Wotan’s involvement suggests that magic is being used to control the plants. Robin, a holo-map, if you please.”

With a flick of his gloved fingers, Robin summoned the holographic globe, its glowing blue light spinning slowly in the dim room like a ghostly planet suspended in shadow. Across from him, Zatara lifted his hands with deliberate grace, arcane energy already beginning to crackle faintly at his fingertips, casting long, flickering shapes against the walls.

“Etacol retnecipe fo yrecros!”

Nyx stood still, eyes locked on the globe as it spun, a dizzying swirl of light and shadow, its surface reflecting an almost ethereal glow in the dim room. Each rotation seemed to stretch time itself, a soft hum reverberating through the air, as if the world was holding its breath. Then, with a sudden, almost imperceptible shift, the globe slowed, its motion grinding to a halt. The red dot appeared like a puncture in the quiet, flashing steadily in the dense, endless green of the Louisiana swamps. It blinked with a cold, clinical rhythm, casting a harsh scarlet glare across the swirling shadows of the map, as though it were some kind of ominous eye, watching and waiting.

“There. That is where you will find their control system.”

“Coordinates locked in. The Louisiana Bayou,” Robin confirmed.

“We’re on our way,” Kaldur said.

The team wasted no time—each of them moving with practised urgency, a seamless flurry of motion as they turned to gather their gear. The clink of armour, the soft rustle of fabric, the quiet hum of equipment being powered on filled the air, a chorus of preparation. But amidst the rush, Nyx was a stillness in motion. Without a sound, she slipped into the shadows, her form fading into the darkness like smoke dissipating into the night. The others dashed off, their footsteps echoing down the hallway, but Nyx was already gone, swallowed whole by the very darkness she commanded.

Captain Marvel began to follow, only to be stopped.

“Captain Marvel,” Batman said, “for this to work, the entire League must be seen fighting the plants. You, Zatara, and I are needed elsewhere.”

Captain Marvel’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly, the tension in his posture ebbing away like a deflating balloon. His usually bright, confident expression softened for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly before he gave a small, reluctant nod. It was a gesture that carried weight, a quiet acceptance mixed with the flicker of hesitation in his eyes.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Bartholomew

October 1st – 18:52 CDT Bayou

The team sat in heavy silence, the low hum of the bioship’s engines the only sound that filled the air—a constant, steady thrum that seemed to vibrate in their bones as the ship cut through the sky. Outside, the world was a blur of clouds and darkness, the vast expanse beyond them as infinite and unsettling as the mission ahead. Each of them braced themselves in their own quiet way, the tension palpable in the stillness of the cabin. Their gazes were fixed ahead, yet their minds were already miles beyond, steeling themselves for what awaited, knowing full well that this would be no ordinary mission. It would be a test unlike any they’d faced before, the weight of it pressing down on them like an unseen hand, smothering the air.

Nyx sat near the back, her posture relaxed yet taut with the unspoken anticipation of what was to come. Her gloved fingers curled around the edge of her seat, the subtle tension in her grip betraying the calm mask she wore. Without even realising it, her shadows began to stretch and unfurl across the floor of the bioship, curling and flowing like liquid ink, cool and fluid. The darkness moved with a quiet purpose, slinking along the smooth surface, trailing softly over the boots of her teammates like smoke drifting through a quiet room, seeking solace in the cool silence.

It was Kid Flash who finally broke the silence, nodding toward the duffel bag at Aqualad’s feet.

“What’s in the bag?” he asked with a tilt of his head, trying to sound casual but not quite pulling it off.

“Plan B,” Aqualad replied, his tone heavy with meaning. It landed like a stone in the stillness.

Miss Martian let out a soft, almost inaudible groan, the sound barely escaping her lips as she pressed her fingertips to her temple. Her brows furrowed slightly, a subtle flicker of discomfort passing across her face. Her touch was gentle, as if trying to soothe away the tension in her head, but the faint tremor in her fingers betrayed the weight of whatever was causing the unease. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, a brief respite from the storm swirling inside her mind, before she opened them again, the exhaustion evident in the deepening shadows beneath her gaze.

“You alright?” Superboy asked, immediately alert, his eyes flicking to her in concern.

“Dizzy,” she murmured, wincing.

“Martians get airsick?” Robin glanced over his shoulder from his seat, one brow raised.

“She does look greener than usual,” KF quipped.

“Not me. Her,” Miss M said, gesturing vaguely around the cabin.

“I feel fine,” Nyx said simply, her voice low. “What about you, Artemis?”

“Peachy,” Artemis replied, stretching her arms behind her head. 

“Not her, the bioship,” Miss Martian clarified. “She’s struggling to keep us cloaked—something’s interfering with her systems.”

As if on cue, the bioship pitched sharply to the left, groaning under pressure. Everyone gripped their seats, eyes widening.

And then—

A sudden, jarring impact tore through the air. The cloaked bioship was struck mid-flight, the violent force reverberating through the hull as the camouflage flickered and sputtered, unravelling like a fraying thread. The ship lurched uncontrollably, tumbling through the air with sickening disorientation. Its once-stealthy form was now exposed, vulnerable in the open sky. The impact sent them plummeting toward the earth, the world spinning around them in chaotic, dizzying motion. With a deafening crash, they plunged into the murky depths of the Louisiana Bayou, the swamp’s fetid waters swallowing them whole in a sickening splash. Mud and water erupted in all directions, the force of the landing rattling every member inside.

The ship groaned in protest as it came to a shuddering halt, half-submerged in the stagnant water, its metallic exterior tangled in a mess of thick, sinewy vines that seemed to grow from the very earth. The air was thick with humidity and the acrid scent of wet foliage. They barely had time to process the disaster before the swamp came alive with hostility.

Vines, thick and writhing like living serpents, surged forward, their jagged tendrils reaching for the ship with unnatural speed, imbued with a sinister, malevolent energy that vibrated through the air. And from the depths of the swamp ahead, monstrous plant creatures began to rise—massive, hulking forms made of twisting roots and gnarled branches, their glowing eyes fixed on the young heroes with an intelligence that sent chills down their spines.

“Out!” Aqualad ordered, already leaping into the swamp. “Defensive positions!”

Nyx surged into shadow before her boots even touched water, her form vanishing into the dark as tendrils of black curled around one of the creatures. She re-emerged behind it, driving a dagger of condensed shadow into its back. It roared, lashing out, but her form had melted away again.

Robin was the first to move—he launched into the chaos with effortless grace, his silhouette slicing through the damp, vine-choked air. He flipped over a snapping tendril, the vine’s thorny edge missing him by inches, before landing in a low crouch and hurling a cluster of explosive discs. They struck the marshy earth beneath one of the advancing creatures, erupting in a burst of blinding light and concussive force. The impact sent chunks of sludge flying and staggered the plant-beast back, its limbs twitching as the firelight danced across its moss-slicked bark.

Kid Flash streaked past in a blur of gold and crimson, boots skimming the surface of the shallow water. He circled the field at breakneck speed, kicking up a swirling vortex of air and sludge that scattered spores like dandelion flurries. The wind he generated deflected the incoming projectiles of pollen and vine-whips, drawing their focus away from Artemis. She stood her ground with razor-sharp focus, eyes locked on her targets. She let loose a precise volley of arrows—each tip gleaming with a toxin specifically concocted to disrupt chlorophyll pathways. One struck true, embedding in the centre of a creature’s chest. The plant convulsed before crumbling into a heap of rotting vegetation.

Superboy surged forward with a guttural snarl, a juggernaut of force and fury. He seized the nearest creature by its trunk-like limbs and swung it overhead like deadweight, crashing it into another with bone-shaking impact. Bark splintered. Sap sprayed. He didn’t stop to admire the damage—he was already moving, fists raised.

Above them, Miss Martian hovered mid-air, her limbs still and composed despite the chaos below. Her eyes glowed a brilliant white-green as she extended her telekinesis in all directions—ripping vines from her teammates’ limbs, halting thorned whips mid-air, and turning the swamp itself against their attackers. Her breath came in soft, rhythmic pulses, her concentration absolute.

Aqualad moved with the precision of a dancer and the authority of a general. He summoned his twin water-bearers—solid blades of liquid magic—and wove them in fluid arcs. Each slash cut cleanly through grasping vines and clawing roots, his movements elegant yet lethal. Water droplets clung to his skin, catching the dim light like tiny stars.

And in perfect synchrony behind him, Nyx’s shadows flared into motion—low and liquid, seeping outward from her boots in silken waves. They danced with Aqualad’s blade-work, spiralling like dark silk around his feet, echoing each strike. Where he cut, they were distracted; where he struck, they were unsettled. Her powers moved like an extension of his rhythm—an eerie, silent waltz of steel and shadow that left their enemies confused, cornered, and exposed.

“They’re trying to hold us here,” Artemis called, firing another arrow.

“Then we don’t let them!” Robin shouted. “Everyone! Push forward—get to the central stalk!”

In the murky distance, through the haze of spores and smoke, the source of the chaos reared like something torn from a fevered nightmare. A colossal vine—thick as an ancient oak and pulsing with a sickly, unnatural light—arched skyward, its twisted form coiled with parasitic growths and oozing sap the colour of bruised blood. It throbbed in time with some unseen heartbeat, each pulse sending a tremor through the swamp floor. From its base, a dome of jagged thorns had erupted—an impenetrable fortress of living bramble, each spine glistening with dew that glowed an eerie green under the filtered light.

The thorns curved upward and inward, forming a hellish cage of nature turned malevolent. Roots snaked in and out of the bayou’s surface like grasping hands, anchoring the structure deep into the muck. Every so often, a flicker of movement or colour flashed through gaps in the tangle—glimpses of capes, silhouettes, the hint of wicked grins.

Inside that monstrous throne of thorns, shrouded in darkness and decay, stood the Injustice League.

They waited like a venomous promise, commanding the storm from within the heart of it.

The battle was only just beginning.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The Team pushed through the muck and mire, every step an effort against the swamp's relentless grip. Ahead loomed the grotesque plant structure—vast, pulsating, a grotesque mass of thorned vines that curled like tentacles into the sky. It wasn’t just a building; it was alive, monstrous and breathing, encasing the Injustice League in a fortress of thorns and poison.

Aqualad led the charge, blades of shimmering water slicing through the dense undergrowth in fluid arcs. Miss Martian hovered above, eyes glowing as she projected positions and tactics telepathically while deflecting razor-tipped leaves with shimmering shields. Artemis ducked and fired, each arrow a whisper of precision, while Robin’s batarangs lit up the swamp in short, controlled bursts of smoke and sparks.

Nyx, meanwhile, fought on another plane entirely.

She moved like a phantom at the edge of vision—never where one expected her, never lingering long enough to be struck. Her shadowmancy poured from her feet and fingertips, ribbons of darkness weaving through the battlefield like serpents. Where her power touched the vines, they recoiled, withered, or fell still—smothered by the unnatural cold of her presence.

At one point, a thick stalk lashed toward Artemis. Nyx erupted from a nearby shadow, slicing it mid-strike with a blade forged from pure shadow, then melted away again before the archer could even thank her.

“Thanks for that,” Artemis muttered, loosing another arrow.

Kid Flash blurred past them, a streak of gold and red. “Pretty sure I just did laps through a botanical nightmare!”

Superboy went straight for the centre of the twisted growth, his fists tearing roots apart with raw force. Vines snapped like cables under his strength, but more rose to replace them. Still, he pressed forward, carving a bloody path.

“Focus!” Aqualad barked. “The source is within that dome—break through!”

Nyx was the first to reach the edge of the battlefield’s heart—a place where the air grew still and wrong, saturated with a choking sense of expectancy. The vines that crowned the perimeter of the dome rose impossibly high, blackened and glistening with a sick sheen, their thorns like jagged teeth. The earth beneath her boots pulsed faintly, as if the land itself had been stitched together with something foul and living.

Her shadows slipped forward instinctively, no command needed. They poured from her feet like smoke uncoiling in slow motion—curious, silent, and eager to obey. Across the waterlogged terrain, they slithered, skimming the slick mud and warped roots, weaving around bones of trees long choked by unnatural growth.

The moment her shadows brushed the outermost edge of the thorn-dome, they convulsed. A searing light erupted along the vines, so faint it was almost invisible—just a shimmer of ancient gold, like veins of starlight beneath rotting bark. Her shadows shrieked soundlessly, retreating in a tangle of recoil. The backlash hit her like a slap—cold and metallic, singing through the marrow of her bones. Her breath hitched. She stumbled back with a sharp gasp, barely catching herself.

It felt like being branded.

She clenched her jaw against the wave of nausea that followed. Her gloved fingers twitched at her sides, craving a weapon that would be useless here.

“Magically reinforced,” she said at last, but her voice was hoarse, threaded with pain. Her gaze remained fixed on the twisted bramble before her, wary now. “I can feel the wards—old magic. Strong.”

But that wasn’t all. The magic wasn’t just strong. It was layered —built like a trap within a trap. Her instincts flared. This wasn’t crude spellwork meant to delay or distract. This was architecture. Someone had constructed this barrier with intention, with mastery, and with venom.

It vibrated with malevolence.

She stepped closer again, slower this time. One hand hovered in the air as if she could feel the shape of the spell without touching it, like a heat shimmer against her palm. Every nerve in her body screamed caution, but she leaned in anyway, eyes narrowed.

This wasn’t Zatara’s kind of magic. Not even Klarion’s brand of chaos.

It was older. Quieter. Designed not to dazzle but to hold. To contain.

Or perhaps to torment.

“Wotan,” Robin said grimly, flipping down from a branch. “Figures.”

Miss Martian floated in closer. “The bioship’s scans confirm seven inside.”

“The Injustice League,” Robin said flatly.

A groan echoed through the bayou like a dying leviathan, deep and guttural, as the gnarled dome of thorns began to split. Roots creaked and twisted, bark shrieking in protest as if the earth itself were being pried open. Steam hissed from unseen vents, rising in thick, sulphuric clouds that curled around the team’s feet, painting the air in ghostly ribbons.

With a grinding tear, the vines parted down the middle like a theatre curtain dragged too slowly, unveiling the nightmare behind the façade.

Seven silhouettes stood within the verdant heart of the dome, bathed in a sickly green glow that bled from arcane sigils etched into the twisted ground. The light painted them in shades of rot and venom, monstrous and otherworldly.

Wotan, swathed in his high robes of eldritch black and violet, stood like a sentient shadow, ancient and coiled with power. His eyes burned with dark knowledge, hands raised in an endless silent chant that thrummed through the swamp like a pulse.

Count Vertigo, pale and precise, smirked beneath the high collar of his military coat, his gaze razor-sharp, chin tilted with disdain as if he were surveying insects.

Ultra-Humanite loomed like a grotesque statue of living marble—his massive, mutated form grotesquely elegant, intellect burning behind cold, inhuman eyes.

Atomic Skull radiated an eerie blue flame from the hollow of his chest, every breath a flicker of nuclear fury. The bones of his face grinned through translucent skin, his body vibrating faintly with unstable energy.

Black Adam stood stone-still, arms folded across his chest, a silent force of divine wrath cloaked in regal fury. His eyes flicked over the young heroes with no more interest than one might give a gathering storm.

Poison Ivy, coiled and regal in a gown of living vines, leaned lazily against a towering stalk, her skin luminous and unnatural, a cruel smile playing at the corners of her verdant lips.

And at the centre—The Joker.

He stood with arms flung wide, as though greeting a crowd from atop a bloodstained stage. His purple coat flared with the movement, wild green hair tousled like ivy in the wind. The pale canvas of his face was split with a grin too wide, too knowing, eyes glittering with manic delight.

“Well, well,” he crooned, voice velvet-smooth and laced with razors, “what have we here?” His tone lifted into a sing-song mockery. “A gaggle of little vigilantes come to play hero?”

He spun theatrically, tapping his chin with a gloved finger. “Or is this just a school field trip? Because if it is— someone forgot the permission slips!”

Count Vertigo stepped forward, his accent clipped and cold. “Heroes,” he sneered, the word like rot on his tongue. “So tediously predictable.”

The air grew heavier. Nyx felt it—like pressure closing in. Her shadows bristled, instinctively retreating along her boots as though reluctant to cross the boundary of that vile light. Her eyes narrowed, scanning, and then locked onto Wotan.

The aura surrounding him bled into the ground like oil. It pulsed in rhythm with the magical barrier—dark threads spiralling out from his core like the roots of some ancient, malignant tree. She felt the pull in her bones, the echo of his magic vibrating like static across her skin.

“That’s him,” she said tightly, voice low but charged. “He’s the one maintaining the shield.”

Aqualad’s jaw set with calm determination. “Then he’s our target. We bring him down, and the shield falls. Spread out. Engage carefully.”

The Team surged into battle.

Robin was already in motion before the others had fully registered the order. He burst into the fray with that signature blend of precision and audacity, cape flaring like a raven’s wings. His boots barely grazed the moss-slicked ground as he somersaulted over a wall of thrashing vines—only to land directly in the path of Ultra-Humanite.

The beast let out a guttural roar, shaking the canopy above. His massive white-knuckled fist came down like a wrecking ball, splintering the swampy earth with a thunderous crack. Robin twisted mid-air, narrowly dodging the impact, the shockwave brushing the hem of his cape.

Using a nearby vine like a springboard, he vaulted back and hurled a sleek, silver disc. It whirred through the air, lodging itself just behind Humanite’s temple— whump —and detonated with a burst of shrieking ultrasonic waves. The creature howled, staggering, one hand clamped over his ringing ear. Robin was already gone, melting into the shadows of the fray.

Elsewhere, Miss Martian faced Poison Ivy, who lounged like a queen in a throne of vines, her expression alight with cruel amusement. With a flick of her wrist, a cloud of shimmering pink pheromones billowed forward, dancing on the humid air.

But Miss M was ready.

She clenched her jaw and extended both hands. A shimmering telekinetic barrier flared to life around her, shimmering with faint green hues. The pheromones hit like a wave but broke harmlessly against it. Ivy’s eyes narrowed—but before she could react, the ground beneath her writhed.

Roots tore free from the earth, slashed mid-bloom by invisible force. With a flick of Miss M’s wrist, they reversed course, whipping toward Ivy like vengeful serpents. The villainess shrieked, scrambling to redirect her creations as the psychic onslaught pressed forward.

Kid Flash blurred into view, a yellow streak weaving through radioactive bursts like a pinball of chaos. Atomic Skull unleashed another searing beam from his skeletal chest, vaporising a tree mere feet from the speedster.

“Okay!” KF ducked under a blast that singed the ends of his hair. “Note to self: don’t touch the glowy bits!”

He zipped in a circle around Skull, building up a vortex that sucked spores and heat away from the team, momentarily distorting the villain’s aim. He grinned, cocky and breathless—then flinched as a second beam nearly caught his shoulder.

“Seriously, man! Personal space!”

Superboy collided with Black Adam like a meteor. Their fists met with a detonation of sound and light, sending shockwaves racing across the dome’s floor. For a heartbeat, everyone paused, sensing the shift in scale.

Black Adam sneered, utterly unshaken, then struck again, matching Superboy blow for bone-rattling blow. The sheer force of their battle buckled the surrounding vines, sending debris flying in all directions.

Superboy’s growl turned into a snarl. “You hit hard.”

Black Adam’s response was a curt, contemptuous glare.

Aqualad, meanwhile, was a study in quiet resolve as he faced Count Vertigo. The villain triggered his power with a lazy gesture, and immediately, the world tilted.

The trees warped sideways. The air spun. Aqualad’s balance vanished as if the swamp itself had become a whirlpool. But he closed his eyes. He breathed. He let the sound of dripping water and the rhythm of his heartbeat guide him.

When Vertigo advanced, sure of his opponent’s helplessness, Kaldur struck.

A sudden arc of shimmering blue blades—his water-bearers alive with motion—sliced across Vertigo’s path, forcing him back. Blind but not lost, Aqualad fought by memory and instinct, every strike measured, controlled, anchored.

But in the chaos of it all, Nyx saw her mark—and slipped away.

Wotan.

The sorcerer stood tall and unmoved at the heart of the sigil-laced clearing, robes fluttering despite the still air. His hands moved in complex, ancient patterns—his lips murmuring in languages lost to time. The magical barrier pulsed with every word.

Nyx slid into a nearby shadow, cast by the gnarled trunk of a fallen tree, and was gone.

A breath later, she emerged behind him in perfect silence, her form bleeding into focus from the darkness like ink poured into water. In her hands: blades of shadow, curved and silent, the edges so black they seemed to drink the light around them.

She struck low, fast—one blade for the back of his knee, the other for his shoulder—

But Wotan turned, eyes snapping open, already anticipating her.

With a guttural chant, he swept his arm in a tight arc. A wall of searing emerald flame erupted in her path, hissing like molten glass. Nyx somersaulted away, arms crossed in front of her as her shadows leapt to shield her, forming a barrier that sizzled under the heat.

Smoke curled from her back as she landed in a crouch, teeth clenched against the burn.

“You wear the dark, child,” Wotan intoned, voice resonating with the chill of tombs. “But do you command it?”

Nyx didn’t reply.

Instead, her body unravelled—her form collapsing into black mist, writhing and whirling like a living storm. She vanished beneath his feet—only to rise again from his own shadow, a sudden surge of shape and substance coalescing behind him.

Inside his protective circle.

Wotan’s eyes widened.

“Let’s find out,” she whispered—just before striking again.

She extended her fingers, and the shadows obeyed. Tendrils snaked into the sigils carved into the earth, bleeding ink into lines of power. The ward flickered. Wotan roared, blasting arcane energy in a furious sweep—but Nyx ducked beneath it, launching a throwing blade of compressed shadow into his chest.

Aqualad knelt, his movements deliberate despite the urgency seething all around them. Smoke drifted low like fog over a battlefield, curling around his calves as he unzipped the duffle bag lying at his feet. Within, nestled in protective cloth like some ancient relic from another age, was the Helmet of Fate.

It gleamed.

Even in the dim, soot-stained light that filtered through the tangled canopy above, the helm shone with an unnatural brilliance. No speck of ash dared cling to its surface. Its smooth, golden face was untouched by the ruin around them, as though it existed just slightly out of phase with the mortal world, watching, waiting.

A faint hum pulsed in the air the moment it was revealed. Not loud, not even audible—more a pressure in the chest, like the moment before thunder cracks.

Kid Flash’s voice broke the stillness, sharp with panic.

“Aqualad—wait!” he shouted, skidding to a halt just metres away, boots kicking up wet soil. His freckles stood stark against his soot-streaked face. “Nabu might not let you go!”

His breath hitched as memory surfaced—raw, unhealed. “You know what happened last time. I barely got out. You could be stuck forever.”

Aqualad didn’t flinch. His hands were steady as he reached forward, brushing the helm’s surface with reverence. He looked up, his gaze calm, deep as the ocean, unwavering.

“We need the power of Doctor Fate,” he said, his voice low but certain, cutting clean through the chaos. “There is no other way to match Wotan. Not in time.”

Nyx hovered nearby, the shadows at her feet fidgeting like restless serpents, agitated by the presence of something so ancient, so rigid in its light. Her arms were crossed, jaw clenched—but there was an edge of unease in her voice.

“If he doesn’t give your body back—” she started, her tone sharp, too familiar with the dangers of possession, of losing control.

Aqualad turned his head slightly, the gesture soft, almost kind.

“I trust the League will find a way,” he said, gently but firmly, silencing further protest with the weight of quiet conviction. “But right now… we must end this.”

Fzzzt!

From above, Robin flipped through the smoke like a blur of black and gold, one gloved hand arcing forward. A disruptor disc sang through the air, slicing past tree limbs and tangled vines before slamming into Wotan’s shoulder with a burst of sparks.

The sorcerer jerked with a surprised grunt, his spell faltering. Energy crackled as his hands recoiled, the magical barrier around him wavering for a heartbeat.

The barrier broke.

A howl of displaced magic tore through the air as the dome collapsed in on itself, the protective field disintegrating in a mist of green light.

Just then, the sky tore open, not with thunder or lightning, but with purpose.

From the jagged rift in the darkened heavens, the Justice League descended like celestial fury, their silhouettes stark against the roiling clouds. Wind howled through the broken trees as a gust swept the battlefield, heralding gods in human form.

They formed a line—not just a team, but a verdict made flesh.

And in that moment, the tide didn’t just turn—it capsized.

Chaos crumbled into order under the League’s overwhelming force. In mere minutes, the Injustice League buckled. Some were subdued by brute strength, others bound in mystic chains or incapacitated by stunning precision. One by one, they fell—Wotan’s spells unravelled by Zatara, Black Adam’s strength contested by Superman, Ivy’s plants withering beneath Zatanna’s incantations and Martian Manhunter’s mental assault. Atomic Skull was pinned by a Green Lantern construct in the shape of a containment cell. Ultra-Humanite’s roars were silenced by a coordinated takedown from Wonder Woman and Flash.

The last to fall was The Joker.

He collapsed under the weight of his own laughter, chest heaving with manic glee even as Batman stepped forward, cuffs in hand. The green-haired madman sprawled in the dirt, grinning up at his oldest adversary like a child caught red-handed in a macabre game.

“Oh, cheer up, Bats,” Joker drawled, unbothered by the bruises mottling his face. “You’ve raised a terrifying little brood.”

Batman didn’t answer. His face betrayed nothing—just a cold, unreadable mask. But his eyes flicked past the clown... to the shadows at the edge of the battlefield.

To her.

Beneath a splintered, vine-strangled tree, Nyx stood motionless, half-hidden in gloom that clung to her like second skin. Her chest still rose and fell with shallow, disciplined breaths—exhaustion carefully masked beneath layers of self-control. Her suit was scorched, a gash torn along her side, and soot clung to the curve of her jaw. But her posture remained poised. Guarded.

The moon had begun to peak through beyond the shattered treeline, casting an iridescent light across the war-ravaged field. Smoke curled skyward, illuminated in shafts of dying light that filtered through broken branches like stained glass. Ash drifted downward, soft as snow.

She didn’t speak. Just… watched.

Watched as the League regrouped. As her teammates collected themselves—bandaged, bruised, but standing.

Then came the voice.

“We’re finished here.”

Batman’s voice cut through the silence like a blade—measured, commanding, unmistakable. He stood at the centre of the clearing, cloak billowing slightly in the breeze. “The supervillains’ Secret Society has been neutralised.”

His gaze swept the battlefield—not just the bodies and scorched vines, but every detail. His cowl cast deep shadows over his face, but his eyes flicked from one young hero to the next, counting, measuring.

The Team stood straighter under his scrutiny, battle-weary but alert. Waiting.

He paused—too long.

Tension built, coiling like wire across every back.

“As for your performance…”

Another pause. The kind that meant something.

Even Nyx, who had not moved a muscle, tilted her head the slightest bit. A shift like a whisper.

“It was… satisfactory.”

Silence.

And then—almost imperceptibly—relief bloomed.

Kid Flash let out a low whistle, biting back a laugh despite the sling awkwardly strapping up his fractured arm. “That’s, like, a ten out of ten on the Batman praise scale.”

Robin smirked, the faintest ghost of pride touching his face. Artemis tried to look unimpressed, but the twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her. Miss Martian beamed, her eyes crinkling with light. Aqualad gave a solemn nod, tension finally easing from his shoulders.

Even Superboy, quiet and brooding, allowed himself a flicker of something like satisfaction.

And Nyx?

She exhaled.

Just once. A shallow breath through her nose, nearly silent.

But her lips curved upward—the faintest, razor-thin sliver of a smile.

From Batman, satisfactory was no small thing. It was respect. It was trust. And for a girl who had spent her whole life mastering masks and silence, that single word said more than any applause ever could.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Mount Justice

October 3rd – 22:21 EDT

"WALLY!!!!"

Wally skidded to a halt mid-speed, eyes going wide. “Oh, bollocks,” he muttered under his breath, flinching like a man walking willingly into a firing squad. He zipped into the kitchen with a grin so forced it might as well have been stapled to his face.

“Hey, what’s up, buttercup?” he chirped, nudging her shoulder in a valiant, utterly doomed attempt to dispel the tension radiating from her in waves.

Nyx didn’t move. She stood stock-still in front of the open fridge, shoulders squared, her entire body stiff with restrained menace. Shadow clung to her like an aura, twitching faintly at her feet, as though it too sensed the impending reckoning.

Her eyes, sharp and glacial, met his. “Where. Is. The. Milk.”

Each word dropped with the precision of a guillotine. And then, without warning, she flung the empty milk carton at his head with supernatural accuracy.

Wally yelped and ducked. The carton spun through the air, slapped off the cupboard door with a dull, humiliating thud, and flopped to the floor behind him like a defeated piece of evidence.

He blinked at it, then slowly pivoted back toward her, only to freeze.

A shadow surged from the floor behind her, twisting and coiling in mid-air like a sentient storm cloud. In an instant, it snapped forward, slamming into him like a wrathful, inky kraken. Tendrils wrapped around his torso and limbs, suspending him above the floor like a marionette. They squeezed—not painfully, but firmly enough to remind him who was in charge, albeit considerate of his still-healing arm.

Wally let out a high-pitched squawk. “Nyx! Come on! This is milk we’re talking about!”

Nyx leaned back against the fridge, arms crossed, one brow raised in cool, deliberate judgment. Her tone was almost serene. Too serene. Dangerously serene.

He let out a shriek. “Nyx! Come on, let me down!”

“I just bought that milk,” Nyx said coolly, arms crossed as she leaned back against the fridge. Her voice was calm—far too calm. “And now it’s mysteriously vanished. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“I swear, I don’t!” he yelped, dangling like laundry.

“Oh, really?” Nyx snapped, slamming the fridge shut with her hip. The door clanged with finality, the sound sharp in the quiet tension of the kitchen. Around her, shadows writhed like wolves on a leash—eager, coiled, hungry for a command.

She was barefoot, toes curling slightly on the cool tile. The overhead light caught the sheen of her dark hair, casting it like ink down her back. She wore a snug black tank top and low-slung jeans, her silhouette fierce and disarmingly casual—like a Vogue spread with murder on her mind.

If Wally hadn’t been dangling several feet off the ground in a tangle of very real , very agitated shadow-tentacles, he might’ve cracked a joke about her looking like a dangerously hot rebel in an indie film. Might’ve. But right now, all he could do was dangle awkwardly, legs flailing just enough to remind her that he was still technically human and not built to fly.

“I swear, it wasn’t me!” he yelped, wriggling against the inky restraints like a caught fish.

Nyx tilted her head slowly, the movement elegant and faintly feline. “You realise I’m not letting you go until I get answers, right?” she asked, voice syrupy sweet, like poison disguised as honey. One perfectly shaped brow arched as her lips curled into a smirk that did not bode well for his immediate future.

Wally huffed. “Oh, when you let me down, I am going to—gonna—” He faltered, brain stuttering like a car in reverse. “I’m gonna— ”

“—Try and beat me up?” Nyx offered helpfully, tossing her hair back with a delighted laugh. She actually laughed. Full-bodied, head-tipped-back, genuine amusement as if he’d just told the funniest joke in the world. “Wally, please. You’re killing me. We both know how that would end.”

“Not true!” he argued, though his voice cracked halfway through and his feet still weren’t touching the floor.

“Mmm.” Nyx turned slightly, reaching out as she purred, “ Computer. ”

A soft chime answered, and a gentle blue light flickered to life, painting their faces in digital frost.

“Pull up sparring statistics,” she said, idly inspecting her nails.

The air shimmered as a holographic display bloomed into existence above the kitchen island—projected in crisp clarity for maximum humiliation. Names and rankings glowed in cold, judgmental light:

1. Kaldur'ahm
2. Nyx
3. Robin
4. Artemis
5. Superboy
6. Kid Flash
7. Miss Martian

Nyx made a show of squinting. “Oh dear,” she gasped, one hand flying dramatically to her chest. “I can’t quite make that out from here. Wally? Be a dear and tell me who’s in second place?”

He groaned and looked away, ears turning pink. “You,” he mumbled.

“Perfect,” she said with venom-laced glee. “Now… who’s second to last? ”

He said nothing.

She leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming with wicked delight. “Don’t be shy.”

“…Me.”

Nyx gave a slow, theatrical clap, every beat echoing with salt. “Marvellous. Truly. So glad we cleared up the fact that you and I are on opposite ends of the spectrum.”

With a single swipe of her hand, the hologram vanished, plunging the room back into its usual warm hues. The shadows tightened, squeezing Wally like a disgruntled seatbelt.

He groaned. “You know, most people just write passive-aggressive sticky notes.”

Just then, the heavy tread of boots on the tiled floor echoed through the kitchen, followed by the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Kaldur stepped in first, his posture calm and measured, but his eyes flickering with the subtle curiosity that could never quite be hidden. Robin and Artemis trailed behind him, both carrying gym towels draped casually over their shoulders, their faces flushed from a strenuous workout. They looked a little worn, muscles loose and fatigued, but the glint of amused curiosity in their eyes suggested that something out of the ordinary had caught their attention.

The scene before them did not disappoint.

Artemis, unable to contain herself, burst out laughing. The sound rang through the room, sharp and spontaneous. “What in the world—?”

“She’s completely mental!” Wally howled, his voice tinged with a mix of frustration and disbelief. “ Milk mental! ”

Nyx stood with her arms crossed, lips pulled into a defiant pout. She stuck her tongue out at him—childish, yet somehow menacing—and shot him a glance that could freeze the blood of lesser mortals. “I bought that carton an hour ago, Wally,” she said indignantly, her voice low but edged with irritation. “One hour. And it’s already gone.”

“I only had three glasses !” Wally protested, his voice rising in panic, as if pleading for a jury to believe his innocence. He twisted slightly in mid-air, his legs still suspended by her dark tendrils, flailing helplessly as he tried to get comfortable. “There was still plenty left!”

Nyx tilted her head slightly to the side, studying him with that same unreadable expression. “I had a glass as well,” Robin chimed in, his voice smooth and casual as he ran a hand through damp hair, the water droplets still catching the light like tiny diamonds. He seemed more amused than guilty.

Kaldur, ever the picture of stoic restraint, stepped forward into the room. “I didn’t have any,” he said simply, the words carrying weight because, of course, it was Kaldur—the one who never overindulged.

Artemis, still sipping on her iced water, eyed the spectacle with a smile that tugged at the corners of her lips. “Neither did I,” she added, her voice carrying an almost teasing lilt. “But honestly, I kind of love not knowing. This is entertaining .”

Wally’s eyes widened in disbelief. “It’s not entertaining!” he wailed, his legs still kicking aimlessly. His voice took on a higher pitch, strained from both his indignation and the absurdity of his situation. “I’m being accused of stealing milk!”

“The Case of the Missing Milk,” Robin declared with dry, deadpan seriousness, crossing his arms over his chest. He stood there for a moment, looking perfectly at home in the chaos, his gaze flicking over the scene. “Possibly my greatest mystery yet.”

Wally threw his head back in frustration, groaning. “You can’t be serious—”

“What about M’gann and Connor?” Kaldur asked, his voice cutting through the chaos like a knife. His gaze was calculating, the hint of an idea starting to form. "Could they have taken it?"

Nyx, never one to leave things unresolved, shook her head. “Can’t be them. They left for patrol two hours ago,” she said with a shrug.

Robin and Kaldur exchanged a long, knowing look.

“Well then,” Artemis said, looking around the kitchen with raised brows, her fingers toying with the condensation on her glass. “Who’s left?”

Right on cue, the doors to the common room hissed open with a mechanical swish, slicing through the tense silence like a blade.

“Oh hey, team!” Captain Marvel called out, his voice chipper and oblivious as he strolled in, radiating the easy, carefree energy of someone definitely not guilty of stealing from a furious shadowmancer. The fluorescent lights glinted off the red of his suit, and his boyish grin could’ve powered half the Watchtower.

Every eye in the room locked on him with eerie synchronicity—unmoving, unblinking.

Because in his hands was a massive stainless steel bowl.

Brimming with milk.

Nyx inhaled sharply, lips parting with the start of a curse, but before she could unleash whatever storm had begun to rise behind her eyes, Kaldur moved with swift, diplomatic precision. He calmly reached over and clamped a hand over her mouth.

Captain Marvel paused mid-step, blinking in confusion at the frozen tableau of stunned silence and palpable tension.

“Erm... is everything alright?” he asked, glancing around with a slightly nervous chuckle. Then, as if noticing it for the first time, he looked down at the enormous bowl in his arms. “Oh—this?” he said brightly. “It’s for Wolf. He’s a growing boy!” With a cheerful hum, he turned and exited the room, cape swishing behind him, utterly unaware of the chaos he’d just left in his wake.

The doors whispered shut behind him with a soft shhhk.

And then Artemis exploded with laughter.

She doubled over with a loud snort, nearly spilling her water, while Robin collapsed against the counter, wheezing, one hand on his stomach and the other pounding weakly against the granite surface. Even Kaldur, composed as ever, released Nyx with a rare, audible chuckle rumbling in his chest.

Wally, finally freed, landed on his feet and threw his fists into the air like a victorious prizefighter. “ I TOLD you it wasn’t me!” he shouted, spinning in a triumphant circle. “I’m innocent! Vindicated! Just a humble, lactose-loving speedster, unfairly accused!”

Nyx stood still as a statue, her expression a cocktail of disbelief, horror, and simmering exasperation. “Unbelievable,” she muttered. The shadows that had been holding Wally aloft slithered back beneath her feet, reluctantly melting into the floor like scolded dogs.

In a blur of motion, Wally vanished from the room, no doubt barricading himself in his bedroom before she could change her mind and retaliate.

Robin, still wiping tears from his eyes, gasped through his laughter. “Well… I guess we cracked the Milk Mystery after all.”

Kaldur nodded solemnly, reaching over to claim a cookie from the counter. “Indeed. Justice has been served.”

Artemis lifted her glass high in salute. “To justice. ”

Nyx groaned, dragging a hand down her face as she swung open the fridge again—only to be met with the mocking expanse of its glowing, empty shelves.

She stared at it a long, miserable moment before muttering darkly under her breath, “Next time, I’m writing my name on the damn carton.”

Chapter Text

Mount Justice

October 10th – 16:58 EDT

At the heart of the training floor, Nyx and Robin were locked in a sparring match so sharp it seemed to split the air. No powers. No tech. Just fists, footwork, and the finely-honed instincts of two protégés raised in shadow.

Their bodies moved with blistering speed—too fast for an untrained eye to follow, yet every motion was calculated, efficient. Around them, the cavernous space of Mount Justice felt hushed, the usual hum of equipment and quiet chatter fading beneath the electric tension radiating from the centre of the room.

Nyx struck first—silent as thought, her movement fluid, almost serpentine. She flowed around Robin’s initial stance like smoke slipping through a crack, dropping low and pivoting on one hand to flip over his leg sweep. She landed with precision, knees bent, weight perfectly balanced. In a breath, she twisted her hips and launched a counter-kick aimed directly for his ribs—fast and sharp enough to bruise.

Robin blocked it with a grunt, forearm bracing against the impact, then used the rebound to pivot into a tight feint—a jab that ghosted toward her jaw before snapping into a genuine punch aimed at her midsection. She twisted away at the last second before she dropped low and swept his legs with a wide arc of her heel.

He jumped. Barely. The soles of his boots cleared her foot by a hair’s breadth, and he landed hard, skidding back on the mat. They reset—no pause, no signal—just a mutual understanding.

Their fight had evolved into something more than training. A test. A conversation through fists and footwork, silent but searing.

Both had been trained by the same man. Both were shaped by relentless discipline, sleepless hours, and the subtle war of egos that came with striving for perfection. But here, stripped of gimmicks and gadgets, it was pure. Brutal. Beautiful.

On the sidelines, Artemis leaned against the wall with the casual posture of someone trying not to look too impressed, arms folded, one boot braced behind her. But her eyes tracked every movement with razor focus. Next to her, Kaldur and M’gann stood shoulder-to-shoulder, still catching their breath from their own spar. Unlike the raw intensity unfolding before them, theirs had been a quiet match—a measured rhythm of thrusts and blocks, an exchange of respect.

But now even they had stilled.

The air in the room felt heavier. More charged.

This was the first time Robin and Nyx had gone head-to-head without the interference of her powers—no vanishing into shadows, no phantom strikes from impossible angles. Just muscle and will.

Robin lunged again, this time more aggressive, more intentional. He closed the distance with brutal economy, ducked under her guard and hooked her wrist with one gloved hand, aiming to use her momentum to throw her over his shoulder.

But Nyx moved, twisting mid-grab with such deftness it was as if his grip slipped through water. She used his own pull to launch herself into a tight back handspring, arcing over his shoulder, boots flashing above his head. She landed in a crouch, eyes glinting behind her mask.

And then she attacked.

A blur of precision—jab to the shoulder, kick to the thigh, a palm strike aimed for his sternum, elbow slicing toward his collarbone. Her strikes were clinical but not without force—each one designed to be felt.

Robin matched her, blocking each hit with fierce economy, arms snapping into position, ducking under a kick, countering with a swift strike toward her ribs that she barely dodged. Their movements had quickened, breath now audible—ragged, sharp, shallow.

Beads of sweat slid down Robin’s temple, disappearing into the edge of his domino mask. Nyx’s hair clung slightly to her jaw beneath her cowl, her exhale just audible as she circled him again, never quite still.

This wasn’t sparring anymore.

It was a challenge.

A statement.

A silent, brutal, I see you.

And neither of them— neither —was backing down.

Across the room, Wally reclined dramatically in a deck chair, one arm in a sling, the other reaching lazily for the plate of nachos that Captain Marvel had just handed him. In Nyx’s opinion, he was acting like Gotham royalty, not a temporarily injured speedster.

“He’s got a broken arm, not full-body paralysis,” she’d muttered earlier to Artemis, who had snorted in agreement.

Wolf lay curled beside Wally’s chair, snoring peacefully.

On the mat, Robin faltered—just a fraction of a second, but it was all Nyx needed.

She dropped low, faster than a blink, sweeping his legs out from under him with a fluid, scything motion. He went down hard, the breath punched from his lungs, and before he could so much as curse, she was on him. A blur of sleek black fabric and controlled grace, she straddled his hips, knees pinning his sides, one palm braced against the centre of his chest, the other catching herself beside his shoulder.

His back hit the mat. Her weight held him firm.

Sweat glistened on both of them, catching the overhead lights like dew on armour. Nyx's hair had come loose in the scuffle—silken strands clinging to her damp cheeks, escaping the tie at the nape of her neck. A few locks brushed against Robin’s mask, hanging like a curtain between them. Her chest rose and fell, the rhythm just a touch faster than usual, breath hot from exertion.

They froze in place.

Just for a moment.

Their gazes locked—blue meeting brown, steady and unreadable.

Robin blinked up at her, a little winded, a lot amused. His grin was crooked, all boyish charm and irreverent ease. “I’m impressed,” he murmured, voice still catching up to the moment.

Nyx tilted her head, a smirk tugging at her lips—slow, sly, familiar. “Really?” she asked, her voice a low hum between them. “We were trained by the same person.” Her weight shifted forward slightly as she leaned in, just enough to make her point. “Though it’s clear one of us paid more attention.”

A breath of laughter escaped him—real, warm. Not at all bothered by the jab. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, still grinning beneath her. “Rub it in.”

The sarcasm was there, but so was something else—something lighter than their usual tension, something new.

Ever since the Injustice League mission, when battle had bled into trust and necessity had become understanding, things had changed. The sharp suspicion that once crackled between them had faded. He no longer treated her like a walking red flag. No more wary glances or clipped commands.

Now, it was camaraderie.

A spark of competition.

And maybe—just maybe—something else simmering beneath.

Nyx didn’t move right away. Neither did he. The beat stretched, just a hair longer than it should have.

A discreet cough interrupted the moment.

Black Canary, arms crossed, raised an eyebrow.

Nyx rolled off him and stood, offering Robin a hand. He took it, and she pulled him up in one clean movement.

“Excellent work, all of you,” Canary said. “It’s been a very productive couple of days.”

“Yeah—unless you’re Kid Malignerer over there,” Artemis muttered, jerking her chin in Wally’s direction.

The entire team turned to watch him shove another nacho into his mouth, his broken arm propped up like some kind of badge of honour.

“Hey! This arm was broken fighting Black Adam, thank you very much,” Wally called defensively, waving his cast as if it proved his valour.

Black Canary shook her head with a smile. “Honestly… I’ve really enjoyed being your, uh, den mother.”

Just then, the computer chimed.

[Recognised: Zatara, 1-1.]

The Zeta Tube shimmered with light as Zatara stepped through, cloak trailing behind him. He walked to the holokeyboard and tapped in a sequence with graceful efficiency.

[Access Granted.]

The team followed Black Canary as she approached the tube.

[Zatanna, Zatara, A-03. Authorisation: Zatara, 1-1.]

With a whirr and flash, a new figure emerged—a girl around Robin’s age, clearly nervous. Her resemblance to Zatara was striking: the same dark eyes, the same refined features, though softer, more youthful. She stood shorter than both Robin and Nyx, her hands clasped awkwardly in front of her.

“This is Zatanna,” Zatara said warmly. “My daughter.”

Zatanna gave a hesitant smile, her gaze flicking over the assembled young heroes with a mixture of uncertainty and curiosity.

“The team,” he added with a nod.

Zatanna stood still, her wide eyes scanning the team with quiet curiosity. Before anyone else could step forward, Robin strode in, practically bouncing with enthusiasm. He cut in front of M’gann, who had just taken a step forward herself, and offered Zatanna a bright grin.

“Hi! I’m Robin,” he said, voice quick and a touch too eager. “That’s Wally—over there, being tragically pampered like a wounded prince. This here’s M’gann, Connor, Artemis, Kaldur, and Nyx.”

Zatanna gave a small nod, her hands still clasped nervously in front of her.

Robin cleared his throat, clearly trying to sound casual. “So, uh… are you joining the team?”

Zatara stepped forward before his daughter could answer. His voice was calm, but there was a protective edge to it. “No. This is merely a visit.”

He offered a small, apologetic smile to Black Canary. “I regret we weren’t able to arrive earlier. I had hoped Zatanna could observe some of the training sessions. It would have been beneficial.”

Black Canary raised an eyebrow, arms crossed loosely. “You’re welcome any time, Zatara. You know that.”

Zatara gave a slight bow of his head in gratitude.

Meanwhile, Robin was still hovering by Zatanna’s side, visibly trying to tone down his excitement—but failing somewhat miserably. Artemis leaned over to Nyx with an amused smirk.

“Oh, this is going to be fun,” she muttered under her breath.

Nyx didn’t answer—just watched Zatanna with quiet interest, her expression unreadable as the shadows at her boots flickered gently.

“Do any of you get the impression we’re still on probation with Zatara?” M’gann asked telepathically, her brow slightly furrowed. Her eyes flicked towards the magician, who stood beside his daughter with quiet authority. The rest of the team glanced towards her—some subtly, some less so.

Zatanna blinked, momentarily confused by the sudden silence and vague looks being exchanged. She had no idea they were holding a private mental conversation right in front of her.

“Not just Zatara,” Connor said, his voice low but edged with irritation. “Why’s Marvel still hanging around?”

He nodded towards Captain Marvel, who was now casually flipping through a comic book whilst still perched beside Wally like a loyal valet.

“Because we like having him around,” Wally replied, reclining further into his cushioned throne of self-pity.

“You like having him around ‘cause he waits on you hand and foot,” Artemis muttered, arms folded.

Wally smirked. “And your point is?”

“It almost makes one nostalgic for Red Tornado's tenure as our supervisor,” Kaldur said dryly, glancing at the rest of them.

“Yeah. At least he trusted us,” Nyx added, voice quiet, the shadows around her boots shifting in a faint ripple.

“If you ignore the fact that we shouldn’t have trusted him at all,” Superboy snapped. “That machine nearly got M’—all of us—killed!”

His frustration rang through the room, his arms thrown up in exasperation. That finally broke Zatanna’s patience. Her posture stiffened as the confused look vanished, replaced by clear annoyance. She stepped forward, arms now at her sides.

“Wait—are you guys having a psychic conversation?” she asked, incredulous. “Because I can’t tell if that’s really cool… or completely rude.”

The team froze mid-thought, all eyes snapping to her. They stared blankly for a moment, caught in the act like school children whispering behind the teacher’s back.

Connor let out a huff of breath, jaw clenched. “Fine. Since we're all being polite, I’ll just say it out loud—yeah, we were talking about Tornado and the League.”

Zatanna’s eyes widened, but Connor ploughed on, his voice growing taut with frustration.

“What is the League even doing? We've been cleaning up messes, chasing shadows—literally—and they're still no closer to finding out what happened. They just keep us in the dark.”

Robin stepped forward too, arms folded tightly across his chest, mouth pulled into a tight line. “He’s not wrong. We've been working non-stop, risking our lives— we faced the Injustice League—and there’s still radio silence from upstairs. No updates. No Tornado. No answers.”

“Enough.” Black Canary’s tone cut clean through the tension. Calm but firm. Her gaze swept over the team. “This isn’t your fight to pick. The League is working as quickly as it can. You need to focus on the missions assigned to you.”

Zatara, calm as ever, gave a diplomatic nod. “Perhaps now is not the time for these discussions.” He placed a gentle hand on Zatanna’s shoulder. “The team could show Zatanna around. Familiarise her with your facilities.”

Captain Marvel returned just then, beaming and utterly unaware of the tension in the room. He carried a comically large plate piled high with snacks for Wally. “Crisis averted. Nachos, jalapeño poppers, and double-fried potato wedges. Chef’s special.” He placed the platter beside Wally with an exaggerated flourish. “Mind if I tag along for the tour?”

Connor rolled his eyes. “Actually, could you take Wolf for a walk? He’s been curled up next to you all afternoon.”

Captain Marvel blinked. “Oh—sure. C’mon, boy.” He whistled, and Wolf lazily got up, tail thumping once as he padded after him.

“We’ll meet you outside in a bit,” Connor added.

With Marvel and Wolf gone, the group began to drift toward the kitchen, the easiest place to talk in semi-privacy. Zatanna fell into step beside Robin, seemingly out of nowhere.

He jumped slightly, clearly caught off guard. “Whoa—hi.”

“So,” Zatanna said, raising an eyebrow as she looked around the bland hallway leading to the kitchen, “are we actually doing a tour? Because I’ve got to be honest—this place is very… cave-y.”

Connor, standing just ahead, turned over his shoulder. “Not quite. We’re going hunting.”

“For the robots,” Kaldur confirmed, as serious and unflinching as ever.

Zatanna tilted her head. “You’re not talking telepathically anymore. I take it that means I’m in on the secret?”

Artemis leaned casually against the counter as they reached the kitchen. “What about new girl?”

Nyx, who had remained quiet until now, let her shadows curl lazily at her ankles as she studied Zatanna. “She won’t tell, will she?”

Zatanna’s lips curled into a smirk, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Not if you kidnap me.”

Artemis and Nyx exchanged a slow grin. “Oh, she’s definitely going to fit in,” Artemis said.

“Wonderfully,” Nyx agreed, already liking her.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Happy Harbour

October 10th – 17:56 EDT

“M’gann, the Bio-Ship wasn’t authorised for departure,” Black Canary’s voice came crisply over the comms, calm but with an edge of warning.

“We’re kidnapping Zatanna!” M’gann chirped brightly. “Er—for a tour! Around Happy Harbour. Y’know. Be back soon!”

There was a pause on the other end before Canary replied, clearly attempting to sound as unconcerned as possible. “Roger that. Uh… have fun.”

Inside the ship, Robin turned back to face the others, arms folded, expression serious beneath the faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

“Right, where exactly are we headed? Batman is the world’s greatest detective. He’s already scoured every logical location for Tornado and Morrow. If we’re going to out-think him, do better, we need the opposite. An illogical solution.”

He paused, then grinned wickedly.

“We need a truly dumb idea.”

His gaze slowly shifted to Wally. The rest of the team followed suit, turning in sync to stare at him.

Wally blinked. “What? Why’re you all looking at me like that?”

Robin’s smirk deepened.

Wally sat up straighter, adjusting his goggles with mock importance. “As a matter of fact…” he said, stretching the words with deliberate flair, “I might just have the most ridiculous plan you've ever heard.”

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

“So… does everyone live at the Cave, then?” Zatanna asked, her voice rising just slightly to be heard over the soft hum of the bioship’s engines.

She stood near the centre aisle, bracing one hand casually against the smooth curve of the ship’s interior wall as it soared through the sky. Around her, the team was scattered across the padded seating lining the cabin.

“Not quite,” M’gann replied from the cockpit, turning slightly in her seat to glance back with a bright smile. “Most of us do, though. Kaldur, Connor and I stay there full-time. Nyx, Wally, Artemis, and Robin kind of... drift in and out.”

“Nomads of justice,” Wally added, lounging sideways on the back bench, boots up, hands behind his head. “Mysterious. Elusive. Very cool.”

“Very annoying,” Artemis muttered, elbowing him in the ribs without looking up from cleaning her bowstring. “Ignore him.”

Zatanna laughed, stepping lightly down the aisle, her heels barely making a sound against the ship’s floor. “Cool setup. And you all have your own rooms?”

“Yep!” Wally answered, somehow more enthusiastically now. “Super private. For, uh… private stuff.”

Artemis groaned and smacked her forehead. “Seriously? That’s your contribution?”

“I’m just saying!” Wally protested, grinning.

Zatanna shook her head fondly and looked toward Kaldur, who sat with his arms folded and posture upright, as if even seated, he was ready to stand at attention. “So I’m guessing you’re the oldest?”

“That is correct,” Kaldur replied with a calm nod.

“And who’s the youngest?”

“That would be me,” came Nyx’s voice, smooth as always, though slightly muffled from where she sat near the back, half-shadowed by the dim interior lighting. She was perched cross-legged on the seat, a gloved hand trailing through the inky ribbons of darkness that coiled around her boots, reacting like smoke to the motion of the ship.

Zatanna turned toward her, intrigued. “How old are you—if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Just turned fourteen a couple months ago,” Nyx said, flicking a stray curl from her face, the corner of her mouth twitching in something halfway between a smirk and a shrug.

“Oh wow, really?” Zatanna tilted her head. “You’re tall.”

“Gene lottery,” Nyx replied, tapping her fingers against her knee. “Or maybe just the boots.”

Zatanna grinned and looked back at the rest of the team. “What about you guys?”

“Sixteen,” Artemis said from across the aisle, stretching one leg across the seat with a tired sigh.

“Sixteen,” echoed Kaldur.

“Sixteen,” Connor grunted, arms folded as he stared out the window beside him.

“Sixteen,” M’gann chirped from the cockpit, glancing at them via the overhead mirror.

“Fifteen—turning sixteen next month,” Wally announced proudly, as if that somehow gave him extra credibility.

“I’m almost fifteen,” Robin added from the shadows just behind Zatanna, where he’d somehow blended into the background like a smirking gargoyle. Then, with a slight lean forward and the faintest tilt of his head, he asked in a voice low enough to be smooth, “What about you?”

“Fifteen,” Zatanna answered, not missing a beat, though her smile turned just a touch wry. “Same as you.”

Robin raised an eyebrow behind his mask and hummed thoughtfully, leaning back again.

A quiet settled over the ship then—one of those rare, comfortable silences. Outside, stars were beginning to poke through the soft streaks of dusk. Inside, the glow from the overhead lights was gentle, flickering slightly as the ship cut through a pocket of turbulence.

Zatanna looked around at them all, her gaze lingering momentarily on each face—strangers not long ago, now teammates. Something unspoken passed between her and Nyx when their eyes met again. Something curious. Watchful. Maybe even welcoming.

Nyx didn’t speak. But the shadows at her feet curled in, like they were listening.

The team eased into casual chatter again, the atmosphere warm and relaxed. As the conversation meandered, Zatanna leaned forward slightly, eyes glinting with interest. “So… what exactly are all your powers?”

M’gann beamed, levitating slightly off the seat in delight, her energy radiant even under the ship's dim lighting. “I’m a Martian—telepathy, shape-shifting, density-shifting, invisibility, flight, and I can move objects with my mind. It sounds like a lot, I know.”

“She’s basically the Swiss Army knife of superpowers,” Wally chimed in from where he was sprawled across two seats, arms behind his head. “Only greener. Prettier. And less stabby.”

“Thank you?” M’Gann laughed, giving him a playful nudge with her mind.

Connor shifted beside her, arms crossed, his voice low and matter-of-fact. “I’m Superman’s clone.”

The room went momentarily quiet, tension threading through the air like static.

“Strength, speed, durability... No heat vision or flight. But I can still rip a tank in half if you need one demolished.”

Zatanna blinked, clearly recalibrating. “Good to know.”

Kaldur, calm and composed as ever, spoke next. “I am from Atlantis. I possess enhanced strength and stamina, especially in aquatic environments. And I’ve been trained in Atlantean combat magic.” He raised his water bearers, the liquid inside glowing faintly. “I can manipulate water using these.”

Zatanna's eyes widened, her voice tinged with awe. “That’s… actually kind of amazing.”

“My turn!” Wally shot upright. “Kid Flash. Supersonic speed, lightning reflexes, devastating charm—”

“Tragic delusion,” Artemis interjected, stifling her laugh, from her seat across the aisle.

“—and I can vibrate through walls… almost. Mostly, I just run circles around everyone. Literally and metaphorically.”

“That’s true,” Robin said, appearing behind Zatanna with a quiet step. “He ran into a door. Three times. In one minute.”

“Technical glitch,” Wally muttered, folding his arms.

Artemis leaned back in her seat. “I’m the archer. No powers. Just training, instincts, and enough trick arrows to make a Bond villain nervous. Explosive, smoke, taser-tipped—you name it.”

“She’s terrifying with a bow,” M’gann added, entirely sincere.

“Thank you,” Artemis said with mock graciousness, flashing a grin.

Robin twirled one of his Eskrima sticks in his gloved fingers, voice smooth. “Stealth. Hacking. Combat. Gadgets. Grappling lines. Trained by the best mentor in the biz.”

“And an unholy talent for dramatic timing,” Nyx called out, already smiling from where she reclined near the rear of the ship, one leg folded over the other, shadowmancy flickering lazily at her fingertips.

“I can neither confirm nor deny that,” Robin replied with a casual wink.

Zatanna turned toward Nyx, intrigued. “And you?”

Nyx offered a dazzling smile, the kind honed at press galas and charity events—sharp and deliberate. “Shadowmancy. I can manipulate darkness and shadow.”

As if summoned, smoke-like tendrils curled around her wrist, coiling upward in a display that was casual yet undeniably eerie, as if the shadows themselves wanted to show off.

“I can become them,” she continued. “Invulnerable in that state. I can glide through a room without a whisper, and if I’m feeling mischievous, I can scare someone out of their boots without lifting a finger.” Her voice purred with playfulness. “But I promise—I’m very friendly.”

“She says like she hasn’t materialised behind me in pitch-black silence,” Robin muttered, giving her a side glance.

Nyx blinked innocently. “I can’t help it if you’re easy to startle.”

“And I thought I was dramatic,” Wally said.

Zatanna laughed, already charmed. “I think I like you.”

“You’re only human,” Nyx said breezily, as if that settled it.

“She’s also got hand-to-hand skills that’d put most of the League on edge,” Artemis added, nodding. 

“Trained by the ‘best mentor in the biz,’” Nyx echoed mockingly, rising in one fluid movement into a graceful bow, her voice slipping into a spot-on mimicry of Robin’s cadence.

The room snorted with laughter. Robin, arching a brow, regarded her with mock disdain.

“Careful,” he said. “Imitation’s flattery—right until it gets you tripped in sparring.”

Nyx smirked. “Was that a threat or a promise?” she said sweetly. “Remind me again—who had who pinned today?”

Wally let out a low, appreciative whistle.

The team exchanged looks—some wide-eyed, others smug—as they recalled the moment Nyx had taken Robin down in training. Quite literally. Straddling him, smirking. Robin hadn’t been the same since.

“Touché,” he conceded with a grin.

Nyx lifted her chin, shadows drifting over her shoulders like a sentient cloak. She looked positively pleased.

Artemis folded her arms. “You two flirting or squaring off? ‘Cause either way, I’m bringing popcorn next time.”

The words landed. Hard.

Nyx blinked. “What—? No.” Her voice went higher than usual. “He’s insufferable.”

Robin coughed, turning away quickly. “Please. She started it.”

“I started it?” Nyx turned to him, eyes wide. “You threatened to trip me!”

“You were mocking me!”

“Affectionately! ” The word slipped out too fast, too sharp. She faltered a half-second later. “I mean—friends do that,” she added, waving her hands vaguely as if trying to erase the last ten seconds of her life.

“Oh my god,” Wally groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “Just kiss or bicker yourselves into an alternate timeline. Either’s fine.”

Robin opened his mouth. Closed it. Glanced at Nyx. Then, very deliberately, looked at the floor.

Nyx stared at her gloves as if they’d just sprouted wings, shadow tendrils twitching like they were flustered on her behalf.

Artemis raised a brow. “So… popcorn?”

“No popcorn!” Robin and Nyx chorused—too fast, too loud.

Zatanna leaned toward M’gann. “Is this, like… a thing? Their dynamic?”

M’gann frowned slightly. “I’ve never seen them like this before.”

“Please talk about anything else now,” Robin mumbled, half-burying his face in his collar.

“Seconded,” Nyx muttered, still very focused on anything but Robin.

Wally grinned wickedly. “Duly noted. Subject henceforth referred to as 'The Flirtening.'”

“Oh my god. I will smother you with your own nachos,” Nyx snapped, but the threat held no heat.

“Worth it,” Wally beamed.

Zatanna gave a final glance around the crew. “Alright. Powers, personalities… popcorn. You lot are a riot.”

“You haven’t even seen our kitchen yet,” M’gann said, mock-serious. “That’s where the real chaos happens.”

“When we get back, you’ll get the tour. Including the fridge—it’s practically on payroll,” Robin added, voice dry but fond.

“And the popcorn machine,” Wally added with a sage nod. “Top-tier team member.”

Artemis tried—and failed—not to laugh, dabbing her eyes. “A very important member.”

As they drifted toward more casual chatter, Zatanna found herself between Artemis and Nyx, the warmth of easy friendship already beginning to take root.

“So?” Nyx asked softly, her tone for once genuine, open. “Thinking of sticking around?”

Zatanna gave her a thoughtful smile. “Maybe. Not gonna lie—it’s tempting.”

“Told you,” Artemis said, bumping Nyx’s shoulder with a grin. “She fits right in.”

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Belle Reve

October 10th – 18:35 CDT

“Warden Strange owed us a favour for stopping last month’s prison break,” Miss M said coolly, leaning over the table in the stark, windowless interrogation room. Her eyes narrowed as she met his gaze, her voice deceptively sweet. “He’s granted us five minutes alone with you.”

Superboy crossed his arms with a scowl. “Spill it, Ivo. Where’s T.O. Morrow? And where is he hiding his Reds?”

Professor Ivo gave a lazy smile, reclining slightly in his chair as the Belle Reve inhibitor collar around his neck blinked dimly. “Now, why on earth would I know where Morrow is?” he said, feigning innocence with that insufferable smirk of his.

“Because—just hear me out—it’s a totally dumb idea,” KF shot back. “You’re Morrow’s number one rival in the evil android business.”

Ivo raised an eyebrow in mock understanding. “Ahh, right, yes, I follow your logic now. So allow me to rephrase—why in the world would I tell you where to find him?”

Aqualad, stoic as ever, stepped forward. “He knows. Do what you must.”

Miss M’s eyes flared a brilliant emerald as she reached into his mind. Ivo scoffed, unfazed. “Oh, please,” he sneered, tilting his head smugly. “As if I haven’t dealt with telepaths before. Do your worst, sweetheart.”

Zatanna’s expression tightened. She stepped closer, muttered something under her breath in ancient tongue, and leaned in, whispering the incantation directly into Ivo’s ear.

His smirk faltered.

“Morrow’s in a hidden bunker beneath Yellowstone National Park,” he blurted, his face contorting in shock as the words tumbled out uncontrollably. “Exactly one hundred metres south of Old Faithful…”

Silence fell.

Everyone stared.

Superboy’s brows shot up. Aqualad blinked. Even Miss M looked mildly startled.

“Wait—wait, what the hell was that?!” Ivo slapped both hands over his mouth, wide-eyed. “Why did I just say that?!”

Zatanna gave him a deadpan look. “Oops. Magic slip.”

Miss M folded her arms, her smirk now mirroring the one he’d worn just seconds before. “Thanks for your cooperation, Professor.”

“You little bi– That was cheating!”

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Yellowstone National Park

October 10th – 20:22 MDT

The flight to Yellowstone was tense. With their communicators deactivated to avoid League surveillance, the Team relied on stealth and instinct. The bioship swept low over pine-covered peaks and geothermal geysers, landing discreetly in the shadow of a ridge just south of Old Faithful.

Zatanna had magically changed into her suit.

They approached the coordinates Ivo had involuntarily given them. The forest gave way to an oddly symmetrical rocky outcrop. Robin, crouching low, pressed a hand to the stone. It shimmered faintly under his touch, revealing a concealed hatchway.

“Bingo,” he murmured, and set to work disabling the security lock with quick, precise movements.

Inside, the air was heavy and metallic. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead as the team crept through the sterile corridors of Morrow’s hidden laboratory. Strange android parts lined the walls—arms, torsos, heads—some recognisable, others not. It was a graveyard of Morrow’s past failures, a chilling testament to his obsession.

Suddenly, a low whine echoed through the facility.

“Movement—multiple signatures,” Robin warned over the psychic link.

From the shadows, Red Tornado emerged, flanked by Red Torpedo and Red Inferno. His voice was calm, calculated.

“You should not have come.”

Before the team could respond, Red Tornado launched a vortex of wind at them. They scattered—Superboy charged forward with a shout, slamming into Tornado and driving him back. Aqualad summoned water from his belt reservoirs, forming twin blades, and met Red Torpedo head-on. Miss Martian took to the air, matching Red Inferno’s flight with psychic blasts.

The fight was brutal. Red Tornado’s wind attacks buffeted the team relentlessly, sending Artemis crashing into a wall. Zatanna scrambled to her feet and shouted a spell— “Neercs rieht rednu!” —creating a misty illusion to obscure their movements. From the smoke, Nyx emerged like a wraith, her shadows slithering out to ensnare Red Inferno’s limbs, disrupting his balance in mid-air.

“Something’s not right,” Nyx called, ducking another gust from Tornado. “He’s holding back!”

“I noticed!” KF snapped, zipping to avoid a blast from Torpedo.

A pulse reverberated through the lab. The walls shook.

And then, Red Volcano burst through the far wall in a storm of flame and fury. He was taller than the others, his body pulsing with molten energy, his voice a guttural growl.

“Morrow is obsolete. Humanity must burn.”

He tossed aside Red Tornado like a toy, flames licking the ceiling. The temperature soared. Panels melted. Alarms blared.

“Team, we need to stop him before he breaches the magma chamber!” Aqualad shouted.

“On it!” Zatanna closed her eyes, murmuring a spell to reinforce the cracked chamber walls. But it wouldn’t hold long. The volcano beneath Yellowstone was dangerously close to erupting.

They fought with renewed urgency. Artemis loosed arrow after arrow, some carrying ice explosives, trying to cool Red Volcano’s outer shell. Superboy wrestled with him directly, gritting his teeth as his hands scorched on impact.

“We’re not making a dent!” KF said, dodging a lava burst that sizzled past his face.

“You stand no chance against me, humans.” Red Volcano ominously said.

“We're not human!” Miss M and Superboy shouted as they attacked him.

“Apologies. I suppose the properly inclusive term is–”

He smashed them against the rocks.

“-'meat bags.’”

Then came the unexpected turn.

Red Torpedo and Red Inferno, battered but upright, glanced at each other. Some spark of recognition, of conscience, passed between them.

“We were made to destroy,” Red Torpedo said. “But we can choose differently.”

With a nod, the two launched themselves at Red Volcano. They tackled him mid-lift as he attempted to bore into the earth with a superheated drill. Flames erupted around them as they dragged him into the volcanic shaft, the heat so intense it warped the very air.

The chamber fell silent, save for the groaning of strained rock and the hiss of cooling lava.

Red Tornado, struggling to his feet, summoned his aerokinetic powers. With immense effort, he created a massive updraft, forcing superheated gas and pressure away from the chamber. It was a delicate balance—too much force and he’d fracture the rock above; too little, and the caldera would blow.

“Hold it… just a bit longer,” Robin muttered, staring at the stress readouts on a nearby monitor.

And then—stability. The tremors ceased.

The team exhaled in collective relief.

Later, as they regrouped aboveground, the early morning light casting long shadows over the park, Red Tornado turned to face them.

“I am… sorry,” he said quietly. “For leaving. For deceiving you.”

“You protected us,” Aqualad said simply. “You were willing to sacrifice yourself to save the planet.”

“The planet would have endured,” Red Tornado said calmly, his voice low but resolute as the smoke cleared around them. “It is not the Earth that was saved today. It is humanity. And not by my hand. My sister and brother were the true heroes of this day.”

“That’s my point exactly,” Robin replied, stepping forward with a small, relieved smile. “You were never the mole. Never a traitor. We should’ve seen it.”

“No,” Tornado said, the wind rustling faintly at his back. “I left to shield you from further harm. To prevent another attack on the team... and to find my creator, Morrow.”

“Nice. Souvenir,” Kid Flash chimed in with a cheeky grin, holding up the severed mechanical hand of Red Volcano and giving it a mock wave.

“Reddy, we can put you back together,” Robin added, crouching beside the scattered remains of Tornado’s chassis. He picked up a scorched, red metal leg. “Better than ever.”

But Tornado shook his head. “I do not believe I should be rebuilt.”

Superboy’s brow furrowed. “Then why’d you volunteer to be our den mother in the first place?”

“I was the logical choice,” Tornado answered plainly. “I do not require sleep. I have no secret identity to maintain. No alternate life to distract from the mission.”

“True,” Nyx said quietly, stepping out from the shadows, her arms folded. “But you do possess adaptive programming. You were designed to learn, to grow... to evolve.”

“Hello, Megan,” Miss Martian said softly, a gentle smile forming on her lips as she touched her palm to her forehead. “You wanted to understand humanity more deeply.”

“And you couldn’t do that while babysitting the League,” Artemis said, half-snickering as she leaned against a broken support beam. “They’re stiff.”

“You’re not exactly going to pick up emotion from Batman,” Robin quipped with a sly glance toward Nyx. 

Nyx smirked faintly. “Trust us.”

“Then perhaps,” Kaldur said thoughtfully, his voice as calm as the sea, “this cave was never just a proving ground for us. It was for you as well.”

Tornado hesitated, something almost imperceptible shifting in the way he stood. “I do not know if these statements are accurate,” he admitted. “But... perhaps they are true.”

There was a moment of quiet, a shared stillness that passed between them.

“And if I understand the term correctly,” Tornado continued, “then I believe I have come to... care about you all.”

“See?” Superboy grunted, arms folded, as he gave a faint nod of approval. “Practically a meat bag already.”

Laughter rippled through the group, light and easy for the first time in what felt like days. The mission was over. They had saved humanity—and helped a Tornado become just a little more human, too.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Unknown Location

October 10th – 22:22 EDT

The team sat quietly aboard the bioship, the soft hum of the engines a comforting backdrop as they made their way home through the darkening sky. Wally lounged in one of the back seats, scrolling through his phone with the air of someone thoroughly entertained. Every now and then, he’d nudge Artemis and shove the screen under her nose, showing her one of the ridiculous videos clogging his feed.

Artemis rolled her eyes, but a smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth each time.

Across the cabin, Connor sat beside Kaldur. Neither of them spoke, but there was no tension—just the calm camaraderie of teammates who had fought hard and come through the other side. They both gazed out at the stars bleeding into dusk beyond the bioship’s curved window, a quiet serenity settling between them.

At the front, M’gann piloted as usual, her hands resting lightly on the controls, her eyes focused. The mood in the cockpit was relaxed, almost peaceful.

Nyx sat a little apart, perched near the emergency gear lockers. She was retying her hair with a fresh band, the previous one having snapped sometime during the chaos with Red Volcano. Loose strands kept slipping free, tickling her cheeks. Her expression was focused but not tense, and her shadows curled faintly at her ankles—more out of habit than necessity. They flickered now and then, reacting to her energy.

Robin sat just behind Zatanna, who was buckled in near the middle row. He leaned forward slightly and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“So... good kidnapping?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.

Zatanna tilted her head back and gave him a warm grin. “Actually, yeah. Best kidnapping ever.”

Robin chuckled under his breath, clearly pleased with the answer. “First of many, I hope.”

“Assuming my dad doesn’t ground me until I’m thirty,” she replied, mock-exasperated.

Robin’s grin widened. “You were brilliant out there.”

Zatanna’s eyes sparkled with pride. “Tornado never saw my moves coming.”

“Yeah,” Robin said, leaning in with an almost conspiratorial smile. “I knew you had some good ones—whoa, sorry, that sounded a bit too Wally.”

He winced at himself and scratched the back of his head. Zatanna laughed, genuinely amused.

Unseen by the others, Nyx had caught the comment. She flicked a glance over her shoulder, arching one eyebrow with mild amusement, though her expression remained unreadable. The rest of the team was far too absorbed in their own little bubbles to notice the exchange.

And so the bioship continued its journey through the twilight sky, a ragtag team of young heroes settling into a rhythm of victories, close calls, and stolen moments of normality.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

October 11th – 02:09 EDT, Mount Justice.

Nyx had just finished her shower and slipped into her comfiest clothes—her favourite tank top and a pair of cotton shorts. The rest of the team had already turned in for the night, calling out sleepy goodnights before disappearing to their rooms. Zatanna had left earlier, having faced a rather stern telling-off from her father. She was, by all accounts, grounded until she turned thirty.

A knock at her door pulled her from her thoughts.

She slipped on her ever-present sunglasses before calling out, “Come in.”

To her surprise, it was Robin who stepped inside. He was dressed down in a hoodie and joggers, his own shades perched on his nose. His hair was still damp, clearly fresh from the shower.

“Hey… I couldn’t sleep. Heard you’d just got out of the shower,” he said.

Nyx tilted her head at him, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Hmm, were you listening in, Boy Wonder?”

Robin’s mouth opened, then closed again. “I—No—I mean—That’s not what I meant.” He floundered before regaining composure. “I was just wondering if you wanted to sit outside for a bit. Keep me company?”

“Sure.” She laughed and headed for the door but paused to grab his jacket, which was slung over the back of her chair, slipping it on without a second thought.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

They walked in silence, their footsteps soft against the worn stone path that led from the zeta-tube exit to the cliffside overlook beyond Mount Justice. The air was thick with salt and stillness, the kind of hush that only came in the hour before dawn. Above them, the sky was dusted with stars, scattered like spilt silver across navy velvet. Moonlight bathed the rocky platform in a gentle glow, catching in Robin’s damp hair and illuminating the quiet curve of Nyx’s cheek.

She broke the silence first, her voice low and dry with self-awareness. “The last time we were here, we weren’t exactly… friendly.”

Robin winced, fingers raking back his dark hair as if trying to scrub away the memory. “Yeah. I remember.”

A beat passed—quiet and awkward, yet not unwelcome.

“Look, Robin,” she said after a moment, her tone softer now, vulnerable at the edges. “I’m not angry with you. I don’t blame you for being suspicious. I was hidden away for years, then just… showed up, acting like I belonged. Expecting everyone to trust me. I get why you didn’t.”

She lowered herself onto the lone bench that overlooked the ocean, its surface shimmering in the moonlight. The waves whispered below like a secret being kept. Robin sat beside her, close but not touching.

“I wasn’t exactly warm and welcoming either,” she went on, voice tinged with a self-deprecating smile. “I was nervous. It was my first time being on a team. And I already knew who you were—before Batman even briefed me. I’d read your files. Your records. The Boy Wonder. Gotham’s golden sidekick- protégé.” She let out a quiet, embarrassed laugh. “I guess I was afraid I wouldn’t measure up. That I had to prove I was worthy of the team.”

Robin turned to her then, expression earnest beneath the shadow of his mask. “Nyx, no. I should’ve trusted you from the start. Batman trusted you—that should’ve been enough for me. But…”

He hesitated and then gave a crooked smile. “Honestly? I think I was threatened. You were Batman’s secret protégé. It threw me. I thought I was his only one.”

She looked at him with something like regret. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

They said it in unison, then laughed quietly—genuine, amused, the tension finally cracking open.

Robin tilted his head, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “So… you’d heard about me?”

Nyx rolled her eyes, but there was warmth in them. “Of course. You’re the Boy Wonder.” Her lips curved into a fond grin. “I saw you once when I was little, you know. This is going to be painfully embarrassing, but… I had a crush on you.”

Robin’s eyes widened behind his sunglasses, and then he barked out a laugh. “You had a crush on me?”

“Hey, I was, like—what—eight? Batman showed me footage of your early missions. You were this fearless, acrobatic crime-fighting kid, and I was still learning how to throw a proper punch.”

“You were training at eight?”

“Yeah.”

“When did you start?”

She hesitated, gaze dropping to her hands. “Batman started training me when I was five.”

Robin stilled. “Five?”

She nodded slowly, her voice quieter now. “I remember it clearly. I’d… sort of melted into shadow and ended up in an alley. Men were chasing me. I didn’t understand what I was or what I’d done. I was just a scared little girl crying in the dark. And then Batman was there. He saved me. Took me in. Practically raised me, really.”

Robin’s voice gentled. “I thought you had family.”

Nyx froze.

“…How do you know that?”

“I’ve noticed you don’t stay overnight much. Figured it was some kind of family obligation,” he replied carefully. “Detective instincts.”

She was quiet for a long beat, then nodded once, slowly. “I have a father.”

Robin didn’t push. He waited.

Eventually, she exhaled. The stars seemed to shimmer brighter as if drawing her forward.

“I don’t have a good relationship with him. He’s… not a good man. He’s the reason I am what I am. The experiments, the powers… he’s responsible. He hurt me before I even knew how to fight back.”

Robin’s hand found hers gently, anchoring her. “I’m sorry.”

She looked at him, her eyes dark but clear. “It’s alright. If not for him, I wouldn’t have met Batman. Wouldn’t have met the team. Wouldn’t have met you.”

Robin’s expression softened. “I’m glad you’re here. And I’m glad you’re strong. You really kick ass.”

That coaxed a real laugh from her, light and bright. She tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear, cheeks flushed.

“What about you?” she asked. “What’s your story?”

Robin hesitated, then spoke quietly. “My parents are dead.”

She didn’t ask for details. She just reached out, laid her hand over his on the bench, and offered silence—the kind that doesn’t need filling.

He looked at her, and for a moment, they simply saw each other, past the masks, past the codenames. Just two kids who’d lost too much too soon, sitting beneath the stars.

“What’s your other life like?” he asked.

Nyx smiled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Eventful. You?”

He grinned. “The same.”

“Where are you from?”

“I don’t remember much before Gotham. It’s always been home,” He lied.

She perked up. “No way! Me too! Gothamite, born and raised. Small world, huh?” She laughed. “Imagine we crossed paths as kids, at a park or something.”

“Maybe we did,” Robin said, chuckling. “You never know.”

“M’gann had this wild idea that you might go to my school.”

Robin smirked. “If I had, I definitely would’ve remembered you.”

“Oh really? You don’t even know what I look like without the mask or sunglasses.”

He leaned in slightly, eyes playful. “You’ve got a memorable outline.”

She gave him a look—half amused, half exasperated. “That was vague. And weirdly flattering.”

A breeze swept in from the sea, tousling their hair. Silence fell again, but it felt different now, comfortable. Close.

“So… you and Zatanna, huh?” Nyx asked, raising an eyebrow.

Robin laughed. “Nothing going on there.”

“Oh, sure. ‘I knew you had some good moves, Zatanna,’” she mocked in a theatrical imitation of his voice.

He groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, yeah, that sounded worse than I meant.”

“Whatever you say, Boy Wonder.”

She glanced down at her watch. Her eyes widened. “It’s four in the morning? Shit, I’ve got training with Canary in six hours.”

She stood, brushing off the hem of Robin’s jacket she was still wearing.

“Yeah, we should head in,” he agreed, rising with her.

Back inside the cave, they paused at the fork where their paths split.

“Thanks for tonight, Robin,” she said, stepping forward. “I really needed it.”

She wrapped her arms around him in a hug, unexpected, soft, sincere. Robin hesitated only a second before returning it, holding her close. His hoodie was caught between them, and her scent wrapped around him, warm vanilla and something faintly spiced, like cinnamon.

“Me too,” he murmured. He hadn’t realised until now how much he’d needed it too.

As she stepped back, he caught her glance at the jacket.

“I’m glad you kept it,” he said, his voice quiet. “Looks better on you anyway.”

She smiled—genuine, sleepy, soft. “Thanks.”

She turned and walked away toward her room, hoodie swaying at her hips. Robin watched her go. His chest felt strange, lighter, fuller, like something had shifted. He didn’t usually let people in. Not fully. But with her…

With her, it felt easy. Natural. Like breathing.

Like maybe, just maybe, it didn’t have to be so lonely anymore.

Chapter Text

The Batcave

October 11th – 13:01 EDT

[Recognised: Nyx, B-08.]

The Zeta-Tube flared with white-blue light as Nyx stepped through, her boots echoing softly against the smooth floor. She wore a long-sleeved shirt that cinched at her waist and fitted jeans, casual but still precise. Her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, a few soft strands framing her face, and her sunglasses were perched neatly on her nose. As she entered the Batcave’s low-lit expanse, she slid them off and placed them atop her head.

She had just finished a gruelling session with Black Canary—drills with and without her powers, designed to test her reflexes, stamina, and threshold for control. Push the limit. Break it. Try again.

“Bruce,” she said, her voice calm but clipped, as she adjusted the sunglasses in her hair.

“Nyx—”

“You can call me Arabella. It’s fine,” she interrupted gently, glancing at him.

Bruce inclined his head, pausing only a second. “Alright then, Arabella. It’s been a while since we’ve spoken.”

“We spoke just the other day,” she replied with a soft snort. He gave her a sideways glance.

“Properly. Privately,” he clarified. “I take it school has been… eventful.”

Arabella narrowed her eyes. “Dick told you?”

“He’s my son. We do talk, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. But obviously, I don’t know what about,” she muttered, folding her arms loosely across her chest.

“He told me enough,” Bruce said. “He mentioned that he likes Artemis.”

Arabella laughed, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. “Of course, he likes Artemis. She’s amazing.”

Bruce allowed a faint, knowing pause. Then, quietly, “How was your father’s birthday?”

Arabella shifted where she stood, eyes darting away. “It was fine.”

He looked at her patiently.

She sighed. “It was the same as it is every year. Perfect to a fault. You’re lucky you had a choice—you sat it out. I’m sure Dick gave you a full report on how much fun it was.”

“Actually, no. He didn’t go into detail. He only mentioned the formal, business-related conversations.”

“Oh.” Her voice faltered for a moment. Then, carefully, “Does he know? About all this—I mean. You being Batman. The Cave. The Team?”

“What he does and doesn’t know isn’t your concern,” Bruce said, his tone steady. “But no. My son does not.”

“I see.” She hesitated. “Well. You’ll be pleased to know that Robin and I have found some common ground.”

“Did you now?”

“We spoke last night—well, this morning, really. About… our pasts.” She caught the brief flicker of interest in Bruce’s eyes and quickly added, “I didn’t reveal my identity, and he didn’t reveal his.”

Bruce nodded slowly. “Whether or not you choose to reveal your identity is entirely your decision. But you must be prepared to live with the consequences.”

“I know.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, almost lost in the echo of the Cave. Imagine if Robin found out she was Arabella Luthor. The daughter of Lex Luthor. Would he see her differently? Would he trust her less? Would any of them? They’d all assume she was the mole—the traitor. The reason M’gann almost died. The reason they were constantly in danger.

She took a breath. “My father—Lex—he hasn’t returned from his ‘business trip.’ I’ve been staying at the Cave in the meantime. Winston’s been checking in. I told him I’m staying with Artemis while my father is away. I hope that’s alright.”

“That’s fine,” Bruce said with a nod.

Arabella looked at him, something raw and childlike in her expression. “Bruce… I want to know what really happened to my mother. I know she was murdered. But I want to understand why. She died protecting me. From him.”

“Not yet, Arabella.”

“When?!” Her voice rose sharply. “I’m tired of being kept in the dark about everything. My own father is a supervillain, and I can barely breathe around him without fearing he’ll realise that-that my powers have manifested. That I’m not normal. That I’m a liability. He murdered my mother! He’s responsible for her death. What’s he going to do when he finds out I’m Nyx?” Her voice cracked, and the tears she’d been holding back finally broke free. “I don’t want to be his weapon– their weapon.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, her shoulders trembling. “I just… I want to stay with the team.”

To her surprise, Bruce crossed the space between them and, after a slight hesitation, pulled her into an awkward—yet unmistakably comforting hug. He wasn’t exactly warm, but he was solid. Unmoving. Safe.

“You’re under the League’s protection,” he said quietly. “And you’ll remain with the team.”

Arabella closed her eyes, the tears still slipping down her cheeks. “Bruce… I’m scared.”

“I know.”

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Mount Justice

October 16th – 19:44 EDT

The sky didn’t just light up, it tore apart.

Jagged streaks of white-hot brilliance split the heavens, bathing the world in a false dawn that pulsed with dread. From the wound in the sky, they came—black, angular vessels descending like the blades of some cosmic executioner. No sound at first. Just the eerie, perfect silence that only comes before annihilation.

And then came the fire.

The air ignited. Cities blinked out like candles. Oceans steamed. Forests turned to ash. Mount Justice—a home, a safehouse, a haven—was obliterated in a flash of light. One heartbeat it stood. The next, it was nothing but molten steel and fractured earth.

The Team arrived too late.

Smoke choked the shoreline, and a fine rain of ash dusted their shoulders as they stepped into what used to be familiar ground. Now, only ruin. Bent support beams jutted like broken bones from the scorched soil. The air reeked of ozone, of burning memories. There were no League comms. No orders from above.

Only chaos.

“Formation!” Kaldur’s voice snapped like a whip through the link.

Nyx pressed low to a half-demolished wall, the concrete beneath her still warm from the blast. Her shadowmancy swirled tight around her frame—ghostlike, protective, tense. Each breath she drew felt too loud, too fast, like her lungs didn’t trust the air anymore.

This wasn’t a mission. This was a massacre.

Artemis stood firm in the wreckage, loosing arrow after arrow with machine-like precision. But each one came with a flicker of panic behind her eyes. M’gann hovered above, holding the psychic link together like glass straining under pressure—fractured, but not yet broken. Robin was a blur in the smoke. Sharp. Focused. Too focused.

“Left flank—two incoming!” Robin barked into the link.

Nyx dissolved into shadow before the sentence finished, rematerialising behind the two figures with all the grace of death. Her tendrils sliced through their armour, black against flame, her expression carved from stone.

They fell. More replaced them.

“They’re adapting,” she warned, voice tight. “They’re learning. My shadows aren’t hitting as hard anymore.”

“We hold,” Kaldur said, not wavering. “We do not yield.”

But then the real horror began.

The League started falling.

First one comm went silent. Then another. Icons. Mentors. Legends. Snuffed out like embers in the dark. Superman. Black Canary. Flash. Green Arrow.

Gone.

No explosions. No screams. Just… silence. Batman was the last. His voice cut off mid-command on the Watchtower feed. No farewell. No trace.

Just gone.

The Team stood frozen. Children in the wreckage of gods.

“Robin… Nyx?” Wally’s voice cracked across the link. Fragile. Like a hand reaching through a storm.

Robin stared at the lifeless screen. The mask couldn’t hide the shudder in his shoulders. His lips moved—no sound. Just movement. Then his fist slammed into the console, metal shrieking beneath the blow.

Nyx appeared beside him, her face unreadable, cloaked in shadow. Her voice came quiet, controlled, but not steady.

“Don’t stop,” she said. “We can still win.”

But even as she said it, her eyes flicked to the sky.

And she knew. They all knew.

It was already too late.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The Capitol was their last stand.

Smoke curled into the night sky like funeral incense, and the once-proud marble columns lay shattered and burning. The air reeked of ozone and ash.

Connor was down—half-buried beneath the smouldering remains of a transport. Artemis clutched her side, blood soaking through her sleeve in thick, crimson ribbons. M’Gann’s voice in the mental link flickered like a weak signal, trembling with pain and fear.

Nyx moved like a spectre through the chaos, slipping between craters and burning wreckage, her limbs sluggish, her breath ragged. Blood streaked her temple and jaw, and her left arm hung at an odd angle. Every footfall felt like dragging herself through molasses, but still she moved, drawn forward by instinct, by sheer stubborn defiance.

She caught Robin’s gaze across the battlefield, just for a second.

A nod. A nod returned.

They understood each other. Partners. Always. Then the mothership came. A low, terrible rumble filled the sky as the craft loomed overhead, massive and unnatural, casting a shadow so deep it seemed to swallow the stars. Everything stopped. Even the fire seemed to pause, as if holding its breath. A single, blinding beam dropped from its core, bright as a sun and merciless.

Nyx turned, too slowly.

“No—!” Robin’s voice broke through the static.

The impact landed like a god’s hammer, the shockwave a roaring wall of force. Her shadows burst apart, shredded like silk in a storm. She flew—thrown backwards, limbs flailing—before she hit the concrete with a bone-crunching thud. She tumbled across the ground, silent, still.

Robin sprinted to her without thinking, without cover, without fear. He dropped beside her, skidding to his knees, the force of his landing scraping open his palms.

“Nyx—Nyx!” His hands hovered over her, then frantically found her wrist.

No pulse. Her hair clung to her cheeks in wet clumps. There was so much blood.

“No. No, no—get up!” His voice broke open, raw and cracked. “Get up, dammit! You always get up!”

But she didn’t.

Artemis’s scream ricocheted through the psychic link like a dagger. Wally stumbled, blinking like the world had gone off-axis. “She—she can’t be—”

“She’s dead!” Robin snarled. He was shaking, his voice ragged with disbelief and fury. “She’s dead!”

M’gann choked out a sob, her presence in the link fraying like a snapped cable. “I—I can’t feel her. Her mind is just… It’s just gone.”

The battlefield fell into an eerie stillness. Even the fire seemed quieter. And for a moment, none of them were sure it wasn’t real. Then the second wave came.

Kaldur fell, shielding Artemis, his body crumpling like a collapsed tower. Connor was dragged into the sky by a shrieking beam of red light. M’Gann dropped next, her scream silenced mid-thought. Wally vanished in a streak of lightning that never turned around.

Robin was the last.

He knelt in the rubble, clutching Nyx’s broken body. Blood smeared his gloves. His mask was fractured, one lens shattered, the other fogged with grief. He didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. He just shook. And then, cutting through the rubble and ringing silence, came a whisper—not frightened, not ethereal—but real. Solid. Like steel through fog.

“It’s not real.”

M’gann’s voice. Grounded. Certain. And then—

The illusion splintered like glass.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

They woke in the Cave.

Whole. Alive.

The sudden stillness hit like a slap. Nyx jolted upright on the mat, breath catching like it had been ripped from underwater. Her hands flew instinctively to her chest—searching for a wound, for pain, for proof. Her heart thundered against her ribs like it was trying to escape. She pressed trembling fingers to her face. Smooth. No blood. Her sunglasses were on, perched crookedly on her nose. Her mask was gone. Just sweat, cold and clinging. She exhaled in a sharp, ragged gasp.

Across the room, Robin sat frozen. His eyes locked on her like she might vanish if he blinked. He didn’t speak.

Black Canary’s voice sliced through the thick, suffocating silence. Calm. Clinical. Unshaken.

“It was a simulation. A psychic training construct created by Martian Manhunter. No one was ever in danger.”

No one moved.

Artemis’s voice cracked from where she sat hunched over, one arm still braced around her stomach like the phantom wound remained. “You let us watch each other die.” Her throat worked around the words. “You let us think it was real.”

Wally was curled forward, elbows on knees, hands raking through his hair. His skin was pale beneath the freckles, sweat beading along his hairline. “It felt real,” he whispered. “I felt it. Every second of it.”

Robin rose slowly, his movements tight, like every joint resisted him. His hands curled into fists at his sides. When he spoke, his voice was low, raw. “She died.” He didn’t look at anyone but Canary. “Right in front of me.”

M’gann’s eyes were wide with guilt, her hands clasped in her lap like she was trying to hold herself together. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice so soft it barely reached the group. “I didn’t mean for it to go that far. I—I couldn’t pull us out. Something in me… I believed it. I believed it was real.”

Nyx forced herself to stand. Her legs didn’t want to cooperate. Her shadows flickered unsteadily at her heels like they, too, were shaken. Her voice, when it came, trembled under the weight of something unspoken.

“You weren’t the only one,” Nyx murmured, and for the first time, there was a crack in her tone—soft as a sigh, sharp as a fracture.

Batman stood in the shadows, arms folded, unmoved. Unapologetic.

“You needed to understand what a true no-win scenario feels like,” he said, voice cold as the Cave walls. “The simulation was constructed to escalate beyond your control. It was never meant to be winnable.”

“Congratulations, then,” Wally muttered, his laughter hollow, bitter. “Lesson learned.”

Robin didn’t reply. He just turned and walked away. No quips. No retorts. Just silence and retreat, each step stiff with restraint. Nyx’s eyes followed him, unreadable behind dark lenses. Her expression barely moved, but the tension in her shoulders, the minute tremor in her fingers, said enough.

She didn’t chase him. Nor did she call out for him. But under her breath, so low no one else heard, she whispered the truth, just for herself:

“It was too real.”

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

[Recognised: Batman, 02.]

“How are they faring?” Batman asked, his voice low, almost reluctant.

Martian Manhunter stood beside him, arms folded, his gaze fixed on the cluster of flickering holographic feeds projecting from the console. He didn’t answer immediately.

“I am still... unsettled by what you and I permitted,” he said at last, his tone thick with guilt. “And I am a telepath. One can only imagine how these young ones are enduring the weight of what we put them through.”

He gestured towards the images: live surveillance feeds from the various rooms of Mount Justice. The emotional toll was laid bare in every frame.

M’gann stood in the kitchen, mechanically mixing ingredients into a bowl—flour dusted on her sleeves, but no light in her eyes. Her expression was blank, her movements detached, as if baking might fill the void left by loss.

Wally sat slumped at the table, head buried in his hands, his usually twitchy energy reduced to stillness. He hadn’t touched the smoothie beside him.

Across the room, Artemis and Kaldur leaned against the counter, side by side but oceans apart. Neither spoke. Neither blinked. They merely stared ahead, numb.

Then the lounge.

Robin sat on the sofa. His entire frame was drawn inwards with exhaustion. Beside him was Nyx. Her eyes were red-rimmed beneath her sunglasses. Her cheeks were streaked with fresh tears. One hand clutched a throw pillow, the other curled around Robin’s shirt. His arm remained around her shoulders—tight, steady, anchoring her, perhaps anchoring himself. They didn’t speak, but the silence between them throbbed with everything they’d seen. Everything they’d felt.

Batman exhaled slowly.

“I know the virtual reality simulation... spiralled,” he admitted, jaw tight. “But I had hoped the team would’ve begun to regroup by now. They’re stronger than this.”

“Trauma does not yield to timetables,” Martian Manhunter replied gently. “Nor does it care for rank or expectation. You, of all people, know that, my friend.”

Batman didn’t argue. His silence was admission enough.

“Black Canary?” he asked instead, his voice quieter.

“She has her work cut out for her,” Martian Manhunter said. “She’s with Superboy now. He hasn’t spoken a word since they returned to consciousness. She’s doing what she can.”

Batman gave a terse nod. “Keep me informed.”

Martian Manhunter glanced once more at the lounge feed. Robin’s glasses tilted slightly as he murmured something to Nyx. She didn’t reply, only leaned her head against his shoulder, letting herself feel safe for the first time since she’d died.

The Martian’s expression flickered with sorrow.

“None of them will emerge from this unchanged.”

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The soft hum of the overhead light was the only sound in the otherwise quiet counselling room. It wasn’t large—just a neutral space tucked into the medical wing, sparsely decorated with soft chairs, shelves lined with unread psychology texts, and a single potted plant in the corner.

Nyx sat curled in the armchair opposite Black Canary, her knees drawn up slightly, fingers absentmindedly twisting the hem of her sleeve. Her sunglasses were off, her wavy curls wild and loose. She looked a lot older like this—haunted, exhausted, and far too still.

Canary leaned forward slightly, elbows on her knees, tone gentle but firm.

“Arabella.”

The name grounded her. She blinked up at Dinah as if surfacing from deep underwater.

“I don’t know what to say,” Arabella murmured, voice hoarse. “You saw what happened. I died .”

Dinah nodded slowly. “I know. I was monitoring your vitals when it happened. You were only in a coma for a few minutes. But what your mind went through—that doesn’t just disappear when you wake up.”

Arabella scoffed faintly, a bitter sound. “It felt real. I can still feel it. I remember how the shadows wouldn’t come when I called them. How it felt when that blast hit me. The silence after. Like… like everything inside me just shut off.”

She paused, staring down at her hands.

“I know it wasn’t real,” she added, quieter. “But I still keep waking up gasping for air. It’s like my body thinks I’m still dying.”

“Because that’s what trauma does,” Dinah said softly. “Your brain went through something catastrophic. It doesn’t matter that it was a simulation—your mind believed it. That means the grief, the fear, even the physical reactions... they’re all real.”

Arabella nodded faintly, swallowing hard.

There was a pause, heavy but not uncomfortable. The silence felt earned.

“I’ve been through training before,” Arabella said after a long moment. “Hard training. Bruce doesn’t exactly hand out gold stars. But this... it wasn’t just about pushing limits. It broke something in us.”

“Robin’s reaction,” Dinah said gently. “That’s when you started to believe it was real?”

Arabella looked up, eyes glassy. “Yeah. He doesn’t break. He’s the one who’s always thinking, always planning ahead. But when I—when I fell—he screamed. He held onto me like I was really gone. That’s when I panicked. That’s when it stopped feeling like a test and started feeling like the end.”

She let out a shaky breath. “And the worst part is… part of me thought I deserved it.”

Dinah’s brow furrowed. “Why would you think that?”

Arabella hesitated, then leaned back in the chair. “Because I’m his daughter. Because even if no one knows it, I walk around every day with Lex Luthor’s blood in my veins. And if the team knew— really knew—they’d probably think I was the mole too.”

Dinah’s voice was firm now. “Arabella. No one deserves to die. Not in a simulation. Not in reality. And you are not your father.”

Arabella closed her eyes. “Tell that to the part of me that still hears his voice when I make a mistake. The part of me that’s still scared to be alone with him for too long in case he notices I’m not normal.”

“You’re not normal,” Dinah said with a sad smile. “You’re extraordinary. You’ve survived things no one your age should have had to face. And you’ve chosen to use your power to protect people. That matters. That’s who you are.”

Arabella blinked rapidly, fighting tears again.

“You can’t bottle this up,” Dinah added softly. “Not this time. Not after what you’ve just been through.”

Arabella nodded once, biting the inside of her cheek. “What if I’m never okay again?”

“You will be. But it’s going to take time. And not just from this. From everything. You’ve been holding your breath for years, Arabella. Maybe now’s the time to finally exhale.”

She let those words hang in the air.

Eventually, Arabella spoke. “Do I have to go back to the team yet?”

“No,” Dinah said. “Not until you’re ready. But when you are, I think you’ll find they’re waiting. Not because they expect you to be fine, but because they care.”

Arabella wiped her eyes and gave a watery smile. “Even Connor?”

“Even Connor,” Dinah said with a chuckle. “Though he may pretend it’s under duress.”

They both laughed—soft, but real. It was a start.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The door clicked shut behind him, and Robin sat stiffly in the same armchair Arabella had occupied earlier. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t speak. His hands were clasped tightly together in his lap, knuckles white.

Black Canary watched him for a moment before speaking.

“You haven’t said much since the simulation.”

He shrugged, but it was sharp, defensive. “Not much to say.”

“That’s not true,” she said gently. “I was watching. I saw what happened when Nyx... when she went down.”

Robin’s jaw tensed. He looked away.

“You held her like she was really gone,” she continued. “You didn’t even check for a pulse. You knew—or at least, your mind thought you did.”

“She wasn’t moving,” he said at last, voice low, hoarse. “And I couldn’t get her to—” He stopped. Swallowed. “It felt real, Dinah.”

She nodded. “That’s how it was designed. But your reaction was... visceral. The others... they were scared, yes. They were broken. But you —you shattered.”

Robin didn’t respond.

“Talk to me, Dick. Tell me what happened. Not during the mission. Inside you.”

He closed his eyes behind his glasses. “She looked at me. Right before it hit her. She looked at me like... like she knew. And I couldn’t get to her in time. I always get to people in time. That’s my job. That’s what Batman trained me to do. But I didn’t.”

“She was a teammate.”

He nodded.

“But it wasn’t just that, was it?”

A long pause.

“No,” he whispered.

Dinah softened her voice. “You care about her.”

He flinched.

“Dick—”

“I don’t know what it is, okay?” he snapped suddenly, guilt flaring in his tone. “She’s—she’s annoying and mysterious and always acting like she’s above it all. But she’s not. She’s brilliant, and she’s brave, and she throws herself in front of danger like it owes her something. And when she—when she died —” His voice broke, cracking like glass under strain. “I couldn’t breathe.”

Dinah said nothing, letting the words echo.

“I don’t even know her,” he said eventually, more quietly. “Not really. Not her name. Not her past, not fully. But when she collapsed in my arms... none of that mattered.”

“Sometimes,” Dinah said softly, “it’s not about what we know. It’s about what we feel. And what you felt, Dick, was grief. Deep, real grief. That’s not weakness. That’s humanity.”

He let out a shaky breath and scrubbed his hands down his face.

“She thinks no one trusts her,” he muttered. “That we’re all just waiting for her to mess up. But I—I think she’s the bravest of all of us. And I couldn’t protect her.”

“Dick,” Dinah said gently, “you don’t always have to. You’re an aspiring leader, yes, but you’re still human. You’re allowed to break. You’re allowed to care.”

He looked up, glasses still in place, but his voice was raw. “What if it happens again? What if next time, it’s real?”

“Then we deal with it,” she said. “But we don’t live in fear of losing the people we love. We protect them as best we can. And when we can’t, we lean on each other.”

He didn’t respond, but his shoulders lowered ever so slightly, the tension easing for the first time since the simulation.

“She cares about you, too, you know,” Dinah added as she stood to walk him to the door. “Even if she hides it behind all that shadow and mystery. She asked for you when she woke up. She doesn’t remember that she did, though.”

Dick paused in the doorway. “She did?”

Dinah nodded, smiling faintly. “You’re not alone in this, Dick. Neither of you are.”

He nodded once, silent but grateful, and walked away. And for the first time since the simulation, he felt like maybe—just maybe—they’d make it through.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Mount Justice

October 16th – 23:39 EDT

The Cave was cloaked in half-light, the overhead fluorescents dimmed to a low, ambient hum. The glow from the walls barely reached the far corners, casting long shadows across empty training mats and abandoned workstations. Most of the team had dispersed—some to bed, others simply needing space, distance, silence. The simulation had rattled them all. The kind of fear that lingered in the bones, long after waking.

Nyx hadn’t even tried to sleep.

She was curled up on the sofa in the common room, knees drawn tightly to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins like a barrier against the world. Her usual sleek, guarded silhouette was absent. Just a black hoodie three sizes too big, her long, dark hair unbound and cascading in waves over her shoulders and down her back like ink. Bare feet tucked under her, socks mismatched. Vulnerability looked foreign on her, like a shadow had been peeled back to reveal skin underneath.

She stared at the blank screen of the TV. It wasn’t even on. The soft flicker came from the Cave’s ambient lights, dancing across her sunglasses, still perched on her nose like armour she couldn’t quite remove.

When Robin stepped into the room, he paused at the threshold.

He hadn’t been looking for her, not exactly. But after his session with Black Canary, he’d needed... something. Or someone. And when he saw her, curled up and silent, something inside him stilled. She looked smaller than he’d ever seen her. Not weak—just tired. Hollowed out. Haunted.

He approached slowly, not wanting to startle her. The sofa dipped slightly as he settled beside her, close but not touching.

Nyx didn’t turn her head. But she spoke first, voice low, words softened by the hush of the room.

“Can’t sleep either?”

He shook his head. “Didn’t even try.”

Silence settled again. Heavy. Dense. Not awkward—just thick with things neither of them wanted to say aloud.

“I remember everything,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Every second of it. The pain. The heat. The sound right before I…”

Her breath caught. She didn’t finish.

Robin’s throat worked. “I know.”

She turned her head slightly, her profile barely visible in the dim glow. “I saw your face. Right before it happened. You looked... terrified.”

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t deflect. He just stared straight ahead.

“I thought you were gone,” he said quietly.

Arabella’s voice softened further. “You held me.”

His jaw tightened. “You weren’t moving. You weren’t breathing. I thought...” His hands clenched on his knees. “I thought I’d lost you. And I couldn’t—” He broke off, breath hitching, like the words hurt to say.

“Robin.” She reached out slowly, fingers brushing against his clenched fist. Her touch was cool and steady. Grounding. “It wasn’t real.”

He looked down at their joined hands. “It felt real.”

“I know.”

His gaze finally lifted to meet hers, and in the half-dark, she saw it—raw emotion flickering behind the mask. Grief. Guilt. The kind of fear that didn’t fade with logic or reassurances. The kind that stayed lodged in the ribs and whispered what if long after the danger had passed.

“You scared me,” he said, voice breaking a little. “You were just... gone. And I didn’t even know your name.”

Her breath caught in her chest.

“I still don’t.”

Nyx opened her mouth. Closed it again. She studied him for a long moment, eyes tracing the familiar lines of his cowl, the curve of his jaw, the tight press of his lips.

“It’s not that I don’t want you to know,” she said eventually. “It’s that... if you knew everything—who I really am—I don’t know if you’d still look at me the same way.”

Robin turned his hand over, lacing their fingers gently. “You really think that matters to me?”

She hesitated.

“It might. When you find out who my father is.”

His brow furrowed. “Nyx—whoever you are. You threw yourself in front of a blast meant for someone else. You’ve fought beside us. Bled for us. Saved us. That’s who you are. Not whoever’s name is on your birth certificate.”

Her throat ached. She looked away, blinking too fast.

“I don’t want to lose anyone else,” he added, barely audible. “And I really don’t want to lose you.”

This time, she didn’t joke or push him away. She didn’t retreat into sarcasm or shadow.

Instead, she leaned into his side, resting her head against his shoulder. The gesture was quiet. Fragile. Like if either of them moved too quickly, it would shatter.

They stayed like that for a long time. Just breathing. Just existing. Two kids caught between the weight of the world and the fragile comfort of shared stillness.

Eventually, she whispered, “Thanks for holding me. Even if it wasn’t real.”

Robin leaned his head against hers. “It was real enough.”

He turned slightly to look at her, and for the first time, really saw her—not the sunglasses, not the aloof posture, but the girl beneath. The one who was terrified of being seen. The one who had nearly died in his arms.

She parted her lips, like she was about to say something. Something important.

Arabella.

It hovered on the tip of her tongue. A breath away from being spoken. But fear pressed in. Thick. Choking. If she told him, if she showed him, it would all unravel. Lex Luthor’s daughter. The girl born in a gilded cage and raised in shadow. He’d never trust her again. The team wouldn’t. It would all fall apart.

So instead, she whispered, “I thought you’d hate me after the sim. For being reckless.”

Robin exhaled, a quiet sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I don’t.”

“Why?”

He looked at her properly then, eyes flickering down to her trembling lips, the crack in her composure, the way her fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie like she needed something to hold onto.

His hand rose without thought, brushing gently against her cheek. “Because when I thought I’d lost you, I didn’t care about protocol. Or strategy. Or the mission. I just cared that you were gone.”

She held her breath, leaning into his touch. Just for a second. Just long enough for something inside her to loosen, to unfurl.

And then she kissed him.

It wasn’t perfect. Not even close. There was no choreography, no sweet, cinematic lead-up. Just the sharp ache of a moment cracking open. It was raw, unfiltered—a kiss forged from the wreckage of everything they’d barely survived. A collision of grief and panic and unbearable relief, two souls reaching blindly for something solid in a world that kept splintering beneath their feet.

Their lips met in a sudden, breathless rush, not gentle, not tentative—just urgent. Her hand fisted the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing tethering her to the present, knuckles white with tension. His fingers wove into her hair, burying themselves in the ink-dark strands as if to anchor them both, pulling her closer with a kind of reverence that trembled with unspoken things.

The kiss was fire and shadow. Heat and chaos. The frantic brush of mouths searching, slipping, finding again. Breath hitched between them, shallow and fast, shared in the space of seconds that felt like forever. His heart thundered in his chest, not just from the closeness, but from the weight of what it meant.

And then—it ended. Not gradually, not gently. Like a cord snapping under pressure, they broke apart with a jolt, as if suddenly realising the fall.

Their foreheads almost touched, breathing hard, panting like they’d just run miles. A fragile silence stretched between them, louder than anything that had come before, as if the world itself had paused to witness what they’d done.

“That...” Nyx breathed, shaking. “We shouldn’t have done that.”

Robin nodded slowly. “Yeah. Probably.” But his voice held no conviction.

She stood, suddenly too exposed. Her arms wrapped around herself, hands wringing at the sleeves of her hoodie.

“I need to—” she began, but didn’t finish. Her feet were already moving, her body already retreating. And then she was gone, swallowed by the corridor, shadows trailing behind like smoke.

Robin sat frozen.

His lips still tingled. His heart thudded wildly against his ribs. He ran a hand through his hair, dazed. He didn’t know her name. Not really. But he cared. And that terrified him more than anything they’d faced in that sim.

Because this, whatever this was, wasn’t just real.

It mattered.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Mount Justice

October 17th – 06:35 EDT

The next morning arrived quietly, golden sunlight filtering through the high windows of Mount Justice’s kitchen. For the first time since the simulation, the air wasn’t suffocating. It still felt heavy, like smoke after a fire, but the sharpness of grief had dulled to something manageable.

M’gann stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with more care than enthusiasm. There was still a glazed look to her eyes, but she smiled faintly when Wally made a dumb joke about her ‘alien breakfast skills.’ Wally, seated at the counter, was clearly making an effort. He shoved a grape in Artemis’s direction, and to everyone’s mild shock, she caught it and rolled her eyes rather than biting his head off.

Kaldur entered quietly, nodding at everyone, his shoulders still bearing the weight of the simulation, but less so than yesterday. The bruises were internal, but they were healing slowly.

Nyx slipped in, her footsteps near-silent as always. She wore a simple dark sweater, the sleeves pulled down over her hands, her hair scraped back in a braid. She didn’t look at anyone right away, especially not at the boy already seated at the far end of the table.

Robin.

He glanced up the moment she entered, eyes flickering behind his glasses, betraying the tension in his jaw. Nyx’s gaze briefly met his, just for a second, before she quickly moved toward the coffee machine. She was always the one who needed it strongest.

They hadn’t said a word since the night before.

And yet the silence between them now was deafening. Robin couldn’t stop himself from watching her—each subtle movement, the way she stirred her coffee without looking, how she avoided everyone’s eyes. She was always good at hiding, but this wasn’t shadowmancy. This was something raw. Vulnerable.

He hated how much he noticed.

“You look like you didn’t sleep,” Wally said casually to no one in particular, though his gaze briefly flicked between Robin and Nyx.

“Did anyone?” Artemis replied, handing Kaldur a plate. “I dreamt I died in, like, three different ways.”

“Five, actually,” M’gann muttered, still not quite meeting anyone’s eyes.

“We all did,” Kaldur said softly. “But we survived.”

Nyx finally sat down across from Robin, but a seat apart. She focused on her toast like it held answers to questions she didn’t know how to ask.

Robin, usually the one cracking jokes or throwing quips, remained strangely quiet. His leg bounced beneath the table, and he kept fiddling with a spoon.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her hands in his. Her lips. The weight of her body collapsing against him in the aftermath of a shared breakdown. That kiss—they’d needed it. Both of them. Desperately. And yet…

“We shouldn’t have done that.”

The words haunted him more than the simulation ever could.

She hadn’t looked angry. She hadn’t pulled away violently. But she’d run away. Which meant she regretted it.

But did he?

That was the problem. He didn’t know. Not really. All he knew was that the thought of her dying—of watching her fade away, not in a simulation but for real—terrified him. More than anything had in a long, long time.

“You okay?” M’gann asked Nyx gently, almost motherly.

Nyx blinked, caught off guard. Then nodded. “Just… tired.”

“You’re not the only one,” Wally said, grabbing another pancake. “I swear, I’m gonna have PTSD from watching Kaldur explode.”

That earned a soft chuckle from Artemis. Even Kaldur smiled, just slightly.

Robin looked at Nyx again.

She hadn’t smiled.

He bit the inside of his cheek. He wanted to talk to her. Alone. Away from all this. But he didn’t know what to say—or how to say it without pushing her further away.

And she… she couldn’t even bring herself to look at him.

Nyx felt his gaze. It burned like a spotlight. She wanted to meet it, to say something. Anything. But her mind was a mess—her heart even worse. Between her father, the secrets she kept, the simulation, and now him, she didn’t know which way was up anymore.

So she said nothing. Just took a sip of her coffee and stared blankly out the window.

The others laughed quietly around them, the kind of tentative laughter people shared after surviving a nightmare. A fragile moment of peace.

But for Nyx and Robin, peace had never felt so far away.

Artemis nudged Wally with her elbow as he unsuccessfully tried to balance three grapes on his spoon like a catapult. M’gann was mid-sentence, softly telling Kaldur about a recipe she used to make back on Mars, and he was listening with genuine patience, a steadying presence even in the aftershock of shared trauma.

But at the end of the table, Robin hadn’t touched his food.

Nyx hadn’t finished her coffee.

The conversation around them continued like a river they weren’t part of. They sat in its current, still and stuck, like two rocks unmoved by the flow.

Finally, Robin stood. The legs of his chair scraped sharply against the floor, a jarring sound that shattered the quiet like glass. Heads turned, Artemis paused mid-bite, M'gann stilled with the syrup in her hand, but he didn’t offer an explanation. He didn’t need to. Without a word, he walked out of the kitchen, disappearing into the corridor that led toward the observation deck, boots thudding softly against the polished floor.

The silence left in his wake was brittle. Tense. It clung to the air like the final note of a song, echoing without resolution.

Nyx hesitated. Her fingers rested lightly against the edge of the table, heart drumming a quiet rhythm inside her chest. Then, with a motion that felt heavier than it should have, she pushed back her chair. It moved more gently than his had. Controlled. Deliberate.

No one tried to stop her. No one asked where she was going.

She stepped through the hallway, the murmur of the team behind her fading into something indistinct. Beyond the glass, the ocean shimmered like molten gold beneath the rising sun, the waves catching light and throwing it skyward in blinding sheets. The air was cool, edged with salt and morning mist, and somewhere in the distance, gulls called out in echoing arcs above the water.

Robin stood at the railing, posture rigid, hands white-knuckled where they gripped the steel. His head was bowed, dark hair ruffled by the breeze. From behind, he looked like someone carved out of shadow and strain, barely holding himself together.

Nyx moved beside him, her footsteps soundless. She didn’t speak at first. Just stood close enough to feel his tension thrumming in the air between them. The wind tugged gently at the end of her braid, bringing with it the scent of salt and metal and sun-warmed stone. The silence stretched, but it didn’t feel empty.

“I didn’t sleep either,” she said finally, her voice low and unguarded.

Robin exhaled sharply. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh. “Didn’t think you would.”

She glanced sideways at him, the sunlight catching the line of his jaw beneath the edge of his mask. “Last night... I didn’t mean to—”

“Neither did I,” he interrupted quickly. Too quickly. But then his voice dropped, softer, almost uncertain. “But I don’t regret it.”

Nyx stilled, her body going quiet in a way that had nothing to do with stealth.

“I know we said we shouldn’t have,” he went on, quieter still, his gaze fixed on the sea. “And maybe we were right. But I don’t regret it.”

She looked down. Her fingers curled against the hem of her sleeve. “I… I don’t know what I feel.”

“I do.”

That made her look at him. Really look. His shoulders were tight, but his expression—what she could see of it—was raw, stripped of the careful control he usually wore like armour.

“At least, I think I do. That simulation...” His voice cracked, just once. “Watching you die. It messed me up more than I want to admit. I thought I could handle it. We’re trained for that, right? But I couldn’t. I can’t. I thought I was going to lose it when I saw you—your body—on the ground. Motionless. And I couldn’t—”

She reached for him instinctively, hand brushing the sleeve of his uniform, the contact small but grounding. Her chest felt tight, her breath caught somewhere between apology and confession. “I was scared, too,” she murmured. “Not of dying. That... that part almost felt familiar. But of disappearing. Of fading out before anyone ever really saw me.”

Robin turned toward her, slowly, like the movement cost him something. “I don’t know your name,” he said, and for the first time, his voice carried something unsteady. “But I know you.”

Nyx swallowed hard. The name hovered on her tongue— Arabella —but it felt like opening a locked door with a loaded gun on the other side. A name steeped in history, in danger, in everything she’d been taught to conceal. If she told him, everything could unravel. Every wall she’d built, every truth she’d buried, would be laid bare.

She looked away.

And he noticed.

“I’m not asking you to tell me,” he said quietly. “Not until you’re ready. If ever. I just… I needed you to know how real this is. What I feel– what I think I feel. Whatever this is.”

The wind shifted slightly. She let the silence grow between them again, but this time, it wasn’t sharp or hollow. It was something gentler. Something shared. Her fingers tightened around his sleeve for a second, then released.

“We’re not supposed to feel anything,” she said softly. “Not like this. Not when we live the way we do.”

“Maybe not,” he said. “But we do.”

They stood together, two figures outlined against the morning light, the ocean crashing below, the world still turning. Inside, the others were laughing again. Quiet, careful laughter. A team beginning to heal, to find its rhythm after nearly falling apart.

But out here, Nyx and Robin remained on the edge. Not broken. Not whole. Just... becoming.

“Come on,” she said eventually, voice barely audible over the breeze. “We should go back before someone starts making weird assumptions.”

Robin offered her a crooked half-smile. “Too late.”

Still, he followed when she turned. Their hands didn’t brush. Their eyes didn’t meet again. But something had shifted.

Not fixed. Not labelled.

Just real. 

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Back in the kitchen, things were shifting, not completely normal, but warmer somehow. Wally had finally succeeded in catapulting a grape into M’gann’s hair, and Artemis was loudly mocking him for needing five tries. Even Kaldur let a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Connor watched on.

Robin and Nyx re-entered the room, their steps quiet, almost hesitant. Nyx headed straight for the kettle, reaching for a mug she’d already used. Robin trailed behind, settling back in his seat, pushing his food around without much interest.

The moment they stepped in, the air shifted again. Not completely, but just enough for the others to notice.

M’gann gave them both a soft, knowing look. Artemis raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Wally, perceptive in the most inconvenient of ways, glanced between the two, narrowed his eyes like he was watching a scene unfold in real time. He opened his mouth, probably to say something idiotic—

“Don’t,” Artemis said sharply, without even looking at him.

Wally held up his hands in mock surrender but leaned toward Kaldur with a whispered, “I’m just saying… vibes.”

Kaldur didn’t respond. But his expression suggested he might’ve picked up on those same ‘vibes.’

Nyx poured herself more coffee and sat opposite Robin without a word. She cradled the mug between her hands like it was the only thing anchoring her. Her eyes flicked up once—just once—to Robin’s. He was already looking at her.

And then he wasn’t.

The weight of the night before still hung between them. Not heavy exactly. But palpable.

“I dreamt about the simulation,” M’gann said softly. Her voice wasn’t shaky, but it was gentle, careful. “It was… like my brain couldn’t let go of it.”

Everyone quieted again.

Artemis nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

“Me three,” Wally muttered. “I woke up thinking we were still in it.”

Robin didn’t speak. But he shifted in his chair.

Nyx stirred her tea slowly, her eyes locked on the swirling liquid. “I didn’t dream. Just woke up with the same feeling that I had when I died.”

That hung in the air a moment longer than it needed to.

Black Canary’s voice crackled softly over the comms. “Team—brief meeting in the lounge in twenty. Just a check-in.”

Everyone groaned in unison, but no one protested. As the group slowly began to stand, scraping chairs and stretching stiff limbs, Nyx stayed seated. So did Robin. For a moment, it was like the others forgot they were there. Robin finally pushed his chair back and stood. He paused. Looked at her.

She looked up.

“You coming?” he asked.

Her gaze held his for a moment, longer than anyone else might’ve noticed. Her fingers tightened around the mug just briefly. Then she set it down and nodded.

“Yeah.”

They walked side by side, close but not touching.

Still unsure. Still figuring it out.

But together.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

They walked through the halls of Mount Justice with that strange, quiet rhythm that had started to define them. Not quite in sync, not quite out of step either. The air between them was taut, filled with all the things they weren’t saying.

Robin shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, eyes forward. He could feel her presence beside him, could hear the soft tap of her boots on the floor. Every instinct he had was screaming at him to say something, crack a joke, make a deflection, anything. But nothing came out.

Nyx walked with her arms crossed loosely over her middle, her gaze lowered. Her mind was a cacophony. Of the simulation. Of her mother. Of Lex. Of him. The way he’d held her last night when she couldn’t stop shaking. The way she’d kissed him like she was drowning. The way he’d kissed her back like he was drowning, too.

It had been a mistake. Right?

But it hadn’t felt like one.

The lounge came into view. The others were already there—M’gann curled into the corner of a sofa, Artemis flipping a throwing knife over her fingers out of pure restlessness, Wally perched on the backrest of an armchair like a cat with ADHD. Kaldur stood near the wall, arms crossed, calm but alert.

Nyx hesitated in the doorway. Robin noticed.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, just for her.

She nodded once, not trusting her voice.

They stepped inside together. Robin took his usual spot on the armrest near M’gann. Nyx drifted to stand near the fireplace, back to the wall, arms folded once more. It was a subtle but familiar position for her—half-present, half-shielded.

Black Canary entered a moment later, clipboard in hand. She looked out at the group with a soft, practised patience.

“How are we feeling?” she asked.

A collective shrug of shoulders, a few muttered “fine”s. The truth sat under the surface.

“Better,” Artemis admitted after a beat. “Less like I want to punch something. Or cry. I don’t know.”

“I feel like my brain’s still running from something,” M’gann said, voice quieter than usual.

Wally shrugged. “I tried eating my weight in breakfast burritos, and it kind of helped.”

Dinah offered a small smile. “It’s good to talk about it. Even just this much. What you went through… it was intense. It was designed to push your limits. But it doesn’t define you.”

Her eyes swept the room. And lingered, just for a moment, on Robin. Then on Nyx. Robin looked down at his hands. Nyx didn’t meet Dinah’s gaze. She kept her eyes fixed on the mantle, at nothing in particular.

Dinah clicked her pen against her clipboard. “I’d like to start scheduling individual check-ins again this week. There’s no rush. But it’s important we process this. All of it.”

There were nods. Quiet ones, but sincere.

“I’ll let you all get back to your day,” Dinah said softly. “But remember—you don’t have to carry it alone.”

She turned and left. The door slid shut behind her.

There was a long pause. Then, Artemis said, “Well. That wasn’t ominous or anything.”

Wally chuckled lightly. “She’s right, though. You know… about talking.”

M’gann looked around. “Maybe we could… hang out later? Like, properly. Something normal.”

“I’d like that,” Kaldur replied.

Nyx pushed off the wall. “I’ll be in the training room,” she said. Her voice was steady again, carefully neutral.

Robin stood almost immediately. “I’ll join you.”

They walked out again, silent, side by side.

Back in the corridor, Nyx slowed once they were out of earshot. “You don’t have to,” she said, not looking at him.

“I know.” Robin hesitated. “But I want to.”

Nyx glanced sideways. His expression was unreadable behind the glasses, but she could see it in his mouth, his jaw; the tension was ever-present.

She nodded. They continued down the hallway together. Still unsure. Still figuring it out.

But still together.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The training room lay in near-silence, bathed in the sterile, bluish glow of overhead strip lights that hummed faintly, like they too were holding their breath. Shadows stretched long across the mat, soft-edged but watchful. The air smelled of old sweat, scorched ozone, and the cool tang of metal—cleaned but never quite scrubbed free of combat.

Nyx stepped onto the mat with a practised grace, her boots barely making a sound on the floor. She shrugged off her black hoodie and tossed it over the bench, the fabric landing with a whisper. Her sleeves were already rolled to her elbows, exposing pale forearms dusted with faint bruises from their last mission. She flexed her fingers slowly, like testing whether her body still belonged to her. No shadows pooled at her feet. She didn’t call them—not yet. Right now, she needed to be just her. Just flesh and blood and bone.

Robin entered a beat later. He moved more cautiously than usual, the easy swagger of his usual demeanour curiously absent. No teasing quip. No crooked smile. Just a careful, unreadable silence as he crossed the floor and took up a position opposite her. His posture was steady, but something in the way his shoulders sat too straight, his hands too still, betrayed the tension simmering beneath the mask.

“So,” she said, her voice slicing through the quiet like a blade through still water, “hand-to-hand?”

Robin nodded once.

They began to circle, the sound of their boots brushing against the mat the only noise. It was mechanical at first—sharp, clean motions from memory. Jab, block. Elbow, pivot. Footwork tight and precise. But the rhythm built quickly, a low thrum rising between them as muscle memory took over. Their movements blurred—fluid and fast, as natural as breathing. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. This was the only language they could trust right now.

Nyx swept her leg low and sharp, knocking Robin momentarily off balance. He recovered with a twist, landing in a crouch, and lunged. She caught his wrist mid-strike, grip firm, breath stalling in her throat.

They stopped.

Too close.

His other hand hovered near her side. Her fingers still encircled his wrist. Their chests rose and fell, breath mingling in the narrow space between them. Neither of them moved. Neither blinked.

Robin’s voice broke the tension like the first crack of thunder in a storm. “About last night…”

Nyx’s jaw tightened. “Don’t.”

“I just—” He hesitated, like the words were caught somewhere between sense and vulnerability. “I can’t stop thinking about it. I know we've already talked about it, but—”

She dropped his wrist like it burned. Took a step back. The air between them snapped taut, then went cold.

“It was adrenaline,” she said, voice clipped. “A trauma response. We weren’t thinking straight.”

Robin didn’t move. He didn’t argue. But the silence between them sharpened like broken glass. She couldn’t take the kiss back. She didn’t want to. But she also couldn’t face what it meant—not when everything inside her felt like it was already splintering.

“I don’t regret it,” he said quietly, as if speaking too loud might shatter something delicate. “I just… I don’t understand what it meant.”

Nyx looked away, wrapping her arms around her middle. Like she was trying to hold herself in. Her voice, when it came, was quieter. “I don’t know either. And right now... I can’t afford to.”

She turned back to him, shadows smudging the edges of her eyes, her expression drawn tight. “There’s too much going on. I feel like my powers are… changing, evolving. My father is watching everything I do. If I let myself be distracted—if I let you be—” She stopped herself. Breathed. “It’s not fair.”

Robin flinched—barely. But she saw it.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she added, softer. “You’re not a distraction. You’re just… something I don’t know how to handle.”

His mask hid his expression, but not the hurt. Not entirely.

“I get it,” he said. “Really. I just… I didn’t expect this to get under my skin the way it did.”

Nyx managed a smile, small and flickering. “Yeah. Join the club.”

They stood there, the silence humming between them like a live wire. Not hostile. Not peaceful. Just… uncertain.

Then Nyx turned, crossing to the bench. She pulled on her hoodie with deliberate slowness, each motion measured, controlled.

“I think I’m done for today,” she said, her back to him.

The door hissed open. She didn’t look back as it closed behind her.

Robin stayed frozen in place, the edges of the mat blurring in his vision. His heart still beat too fast, too loud. He could feel the ghost of her touch around his wrist, feel the lingering weight of her words in his chest.

She didn’t know how to handle it.

Neither did he.

He sank to sit on the mat, elbows on his knees, head bowed. He didn’t know her name. Didn’t know where she went when she disappeared into the shadows. But he knew how she fought—like someone trying to outrun a truth she wasn’t ready to face. He knew how she watched the team, like she wanted to belong and didn’t know how. And he knew that something between them had shifted last night—something soft and terrifying. And maybe that was what scared him the most.

Because he wasn’t ready to let it go.

Chapter Text

Mount Justice

October 17th – 20:29 EDT

The room was hushed, bathed in the soft amber glow of diffused lamps tucked into the corners. It wasn’t sterile like a hospital or stark like a League briefing room, just quietly neutral. Comfortable. There was a faint trace of lavender in the air, something calming woven through the stillness. A kettle steamed gently on a side table, untouched. The only sound was the quiet hum of the base far below them, distant enough to feel unreal.

Black Canary sat with the ease of someone who had long since mastered stillness. She wore just a dark jacket and worn jeans, blonde hair loose over her shoulders. She occupied the same seat she always did in this room. Not because it was a tactic, but because it didn’t change. She was the constant. The unmoving centre of whatever storm the team brought in with them.

Across from her, Arabella sat curled slightly into the corner of the couch, like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to stay or bolt. Her posture was relaxed in that tight, braced way that wasn’t relaxed at all—arms crossed loosely over her middle, legs tucked beneath her, eyes flickering not quite toward Dinah, but never far. Her sleek black jumper had slipped down over one shoulder, exposing pale skin marked by the faintest traces of a sparring bruise. Her dark hair was loose and slightly tangled, like she’d run her fingers through it one too many times without realising.

No sunglasses. No hood. No smirk. No shadows dancing along the edge of her presence.

Just Arabella. Raw and uncertain. And quiet.

Dinah didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. She just waited, hands resting gently on her lap, gaze open but never pressing.

Eventually, Arabella exhaled and said, in a voice almost too soft to hear, “I kissed him.”

Dinah blinked slowly. “Robin?”

Arabella nodded once. Her gaze hovered somewhere around the floorboards. “It happened last night. After the sim. When the others were asleep.”

Dinah’s voice was steady, even. “What happened before the kiss?”

Arabella hesitated, thumb rubbing her forearm in a slow, circular motion. “We were decompressing. Alone in the common area. It was… quiet. He asked if I was okay. I asked the same. Neither of us were.” She gave a breath of dry laughter. “We kept pretending not to shake. As if we were both so unbothered and… unfazed by it all. And then we stopped pretending.”

Dinah didn’t interrupt. She tilted her head slightly, watching.

Arabella continued, more quietly, “He said he trusted me. Said he knew I’d have his back. And for a second, I believed it. Believed I wasn’t just this… ticking time bomb in a bodysuit.”

“Did it feel forced?” Dinah asked gently.

Arabella shook her head, almost before the question was finished. “No. It felt… like it had always been there. Underneath everything else. Like it was the only honest thing in the room.”

Dinah nodded, as though she’d heard that before. Perhaps she had, in a dozen different stories. “And now?”

“I don’t know.” Arabella rubbed her palms together, fingers tangling briefly before pulling apart. “We said we shouldn’t have. But I keep replaying it. Not just the kiss, the way he looked at me. Like he saw me. Not Nyx. Not… my father’s daughter. Just… me.”

Dinah leaned forward slightly, voice gentle but clear. “Do you regret it?”

Arabella opened her mouth. Closed it. Her eyes flicked up to the corner of the room where the light curved against the ceiling. She looked like she was trying to read the answer there.

“I don’t think I do,” she admitted at last. “But I feel like I should. It’s not part of the plan. It’s reckless. Dangerous. I’m not supposed to get attached.”

“Why not?” Dinah asked.

Arabella’s throat worked as she swallowed. “Because people who get close end up collateral. Because if he ever finds out who I am, who I really am, he’ll hate me. Because if I lose control—if Father ever finds out—he could be used against me.”

Her voice cracked, just slightly, and she looked away as though ashamed of the tremor.

Dinah didn’t react with shock or pity—just calm, unshaken understanding. “Arabella… that kiss didn’t endanger him. Your feelings didn’t. That was vulnerability. Not weakness.”

Arabella didn’t speak. Her jaw was tight, her breathing shallow. But her eyes flicked back to Dinah’s, searching.

“You let someone in,” Dinah continued, her tone softening like a balm. “That’s not a mistake. That’s growth. After everything you’ve endured—your past, your training, your secrets—you still made space for something real.”

Tears shimmered unshed at the corners of Arabella’s eyes, catching the warm light but never falling.

“I don’t regret it,” she whispered. “I just… don’t know what it means. Or what to do next.”

Dinah offered her a small, steady smile. “Then don’t decide yet. It’s okay not to know. You’re allowed to feel something without having to label it. You’re allowed to want connection.”

Arabella nodded slowly. Her shoulders, once drawn tight, eased just a little. The weight in her chest didn’t vanish—but for the first time, it shifted. Shared.

“I just don’t want to hurt him,” she said, voice barely audible.

“I know,” Dinah replied. “But caring about someone—that’s not where the danger starts. It’s where healing begins.”

Arabella finally looked at her, fully. Eyes ringed with exhaustion and fear and something fragile beneath—hope, maybe, or longing.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

For once, Arabella Luthor didn’t feel like she had to be entirely alone.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Mount Justice

October 17th – 21:17 EDT

The cave had slipped into a hush, the kind that only arrived in the dead of night—soft, still, and reverent, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath. Most of the team had vanished into their own quiet corners of recovery. Connor and M’gann were out for one of their moonlit walks, silhouettes flickering occasionally across the cliffside monitors. Artemis was likely still venting the day’s tension in the gym, her sharp rhythm on the punching bag a distant echo. Kaldur had disappeared to the med bay, nursing that stubborn shoulder strain in solitude.

Wally had long since succumbed to sleep, sprawled diagonally across the common room couch, a smear of icing on his cheek and a cookie crumbling in his relaxed grip. A half-eaten tray of snacks sat like evidence of earlier laughter, now faded into the quiet.

Robin remained in the computer bay, half-bathed in the glow of mission reports scrolling slowly across the screen. His posture was relaxed but alert, the kind of stillness born of a mind spinning too fast to settle. He wasn’t really reading—just watching the data blur past, flicker by flicker. Ghosts of old fights. Voices recorded and long gone.

He didn’t notice the footsteps at first—soft, careful, padded more by instinct than noise—until the air shifted behind him.

Nyx.

He didn’t have to look to know it was her. He felt her presence before he registered the sound. A brush of shadow in motion.

She stood just behind him, limned faintly in the cold blue light of the monitors. Her hair was still damp from a shower, strands clinging lightly to her jaw and neck. She wore an oversized charcoal hoodie and black sleep shorts, her legs bare and her shoulders relaxed in a way he didn’t often see. The mask was gone. No shadows clinging to her skin. Just Arabella—stripped down, but still braced, like she didn’t quite trust the quiet.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked softly.

He shook his head without turning. “You?”

She gave a low, breathy shrug. “Not really.”

A silence settled between them—not heavy, but expectant, as though the space was waiting for them to decide what came next.

“Can I sit?” she asked after a beat.

Robin glanced over and gestured to the empty chair beside him. “Always.”

She sank into it slowly, one leg folding beneath her, the other bouncing idly with contained nerves. Her hands stayed in the pockets of her hoodie. Her gaze drifted to the monitors, though her eyes didn’t seem to register the content—just the movement, the faint glow.

The light cast her in blue and violet shadows, catching in the curve of her cheekbone, the hollow beneath her eyes.

“I don’t regret it either,” she said, quietly but clearly.

Robin’s fingers paused on the keyboard. The cursor blinked. His breath caught in his throat.

“But I can’t afford to want it,” she continued, not looking at him. “Not now. Everything’s already too… precarious. If I let myself want more—if I let that door open—I’m not sure I’d know how to close it again.”

Her voice didn’t tremble. But there was something brittle at the edges of it, like cracked glass waiting to shatter.

Robin turned toward her fully. His chair creaked with the motion, but she didn’t flinch.

“I don’t even know who you are,” she added, her voice smaller now. “Not really. And you don’t know me.”

“I know you,” he said, his voice quieter but certain. “Maybe not your name. Maybe not the full picture. But I know how you fight. I know how you move like the shadows listen to you. I know the way your voice changes when you’re trying not to laugh. I know the way you look at people—like you’re already calculating whether they’re going to hurt you, or if you’ll have to leave before they can.”

She turned to him then. Slowly. Caught off guard by the precision of his words.

He didn’t reach out. Didn’t try to touch her, even though he wanted to. He just met her gaze with something unguarded—no smirk, no mask of control. Just a boy in the dark, trying to understand the shape of something new.

“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted, eyes searching hers. “But it didn’t start with the kiss. I think it started long before that.”

Nyx sat with that truth. Let it wash over her like a tide she wasn’t sure she was ready to swim in.

She didn’t deny it.

But she did whisper, “If we do this… it has to be real. And it has to be safe. We can’t afford to mess this up.”

Robin nodded, slow and steady. “Then we wait. As long as it takes.”

No declarations. No promises. Just a quiet understanding between two souls steeped in secrets, daring—if only for a moment—to speak in truths instead of lies.

They sat in silence after that, side by side, the low hum of the computers filling the space between their heartbeats. Neither reached for the other. But neither pulled away.

And for tonight, for this quiet moment wrapped in flickering light, it was enough.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Mount Justice

October 18th – 05:17 EDT

The sound of laughter was unfamiliar but welcome in the halls of Mount Justice.

M’gann had coaxed nearly everyone into the training room under the pretext of a casual team exercise — something fun, light, no stakes. It wasn’t much, just a game of reflex dodge with soft-glow discs and shifting gravity pads, but after the past few days, it felt like a balm.

Connor was surprisingly invested, lunging after discs with almost a smirk. Kaldur, ever the patient leader, offered advice between throws. Artemis was keeping score with ruthless precision. Wally, of course, had turned it into a competition the moment they started, darting between platforms with over-the-top acrobatics and dramatic flourishes.

Robin was watching him with narrowed eyes, arms crossed over his chest, clearly plotting.

Nyx stood off to the side with M’gann, arms loosely folded. She was dressed casually in a crop top and leggings, and her hair fell to her waist. Her laugh came easily at M’gann’s latest commentary — a sign that, though she still carried weight beneath the surface, it wasn’t anchoring her down quite as much.

Robin glanced over, just for a second. Her eyes flicked up, caught him.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did she.

There was a current there — subtle, quiet, but real.

“Alright, dark and broody,” Wally called out, tossing a disc at Robin’s head, “you in or what?”

Robin caught the disc without looking. “You’re going down, Wally.”

Nyx smiled slightly. As Robin stepped onto the field, he brushed close by her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him. She tilted her head as he passed, just a flicker of something in her expression — amusement, maybe. Interest. Something more.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did she.

But later, when it was her turn and the gravity pads jolted beneath her feet without warning, it was Robin who reached out, quick, steady, catching her by the elbow before she could fall. His grip was firm, grounding, the warmth of his glove radiating through her sleeve. He held on a second too long, fingers twitching like they weren’t ready to let go. And her gaze, sharp, searching, stayed on his even longer like she was trying to read a message he hadn’t meant to send. Or maybe one he did.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

He gave a half-shrug, trying to seem casual, but there was a flush at the tips of his ears.

No one mentioned it. But M’gann gave Artemis a knowing nudge. Artemis raised an eyebrow.

“Is it just me,” she muttered under her breath, “or are they really weird now?”

“They’ve always been weird,” Wally said, landing beside them. “But yeah… I told you. Vibes. ”

Kaldur smiled faintly but said nothing.

By the end of the session, when they all collapsed in a pile of mismatched limbs and discarded discs, breathing hard and laughing properly for the first time in days, it was as though a fog had finally lifted.

Robin ended up beside Nyx, shoulders brushing, and neither moved away. The tension hadn’t vanished. But it had changed. It was no longer unbearable, just... waiting.

And maybe, that was easier to live with.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Gotham Academy

October 18th – 07:18 EDT

Arabella sat curled in the window alcove of the library’s upper level, legs tucked beneath her, a notebook sprawled open across her lap. The page remained starkly blank, her pen hovering above it like a held breath. Shafts of filtered sunlight streamed through the stained-glass panes, casting fractured colours across her face and glinting in the dark waves of her hair. Warmth touched her skin, but it couldn’t reach the heaviness in her chest or the dull ache threading behind her eyes.

The world hadn’t felt quite real since the simulation. Since the kiss.

Since him.

But this wasn’t the place to unravel. Not when she was once again wearing the skin of Arabella Luthor: poised, polished, effortlessly unbothered. The mask felt heavier today. She didn’t hear the soft scuff of footsteps until a chair scraped gently across the polished floor. Her gaze flicked up and collided with a pair of familiar blue eyes.

“Mind if I sit here?” came Dick Grayson’s voice, casual but quieter than usual.

Her heart jolted; subtle but sharp. She smoothed it over with a cool, well-practised smile.

“Be my guest.”

Dick slid into the chair opposite her, dropping his satchel to the floor and pulling out a civics textbook, pages marked with scrawled notes and half-formed ideas. His hair flopped slightly into his eyes, and he brushed it back with a careless sweep of his hand. Sunlight caught the edges of his profile. It shouldn’t have felt meaningful, but it did.

“You looked like you were plotting something,” he said, nodding at her untouched notebook.

“I was,” Arabella replied lightly. “An escape from this academic prison. Preferably with minimal casualties and maximum flair.”

He grinned, a boyish flash of white teeth. “Count me in. I know a guy who knows a guy with a private jet. But, then again, you do too.”

She gave a small laugh, but something about it was uneven. Off-balance. Like the humour had only skimmed the surface. Underneath, a strange awareness lingered — the uncanny sensation of déjà vu. As if she knew him not from charity events or society galas, but from something older, more private. Something that existed between shadows and stolen moments.

The pause stretched.

Dick tapped his pencil lightly on the table, his voice gentling. “You okay?”

She blinked, then tilted her head, perfectly composed again. “Of course. Why?”

“You just seem… not here,” he said carefully. “Not in a bad way. Just… somewhere else.”

Arabella’s expression faltered for half a second. Then she nodded, almost imperceptibly. “I suppose my mind’s been... occupied lately.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, gaze dropping to his notebook. “Mine too.”

Another silence bloomed — but it wasn’t empty. It was dense with the things left unsaid, the weight of truths neither of them could name. Like gravity existed just between them.

Trying to dispel it, she asked, “If you had to vanish from Gotham, no explanation, no forwarding address, where would you go?”

Dick raised a brow at her, amused. “Plotting my own disappearance now, huh?”

“Hypothetically,” she said, lips curving.

He leaned back, arms folded behind his head. “Switzerland. Neutral territory. Mountains. Fresh air. They take their clocks and chocolate very seriously.”

Arabella smiled — not the polished kind she offered the world, but something softer. Something real.

“You?”

She hesitated. Then, with a candour that surprised even herself: “Nowhere.”

Dick’s smile faded, just a touch. “Why not?”

She looked at him, really looked, and the words came before she could edit them into something safer. “Because I don’t think distance would make a difference. The things I want to forget… they’d come with me anyway.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The world outside the window blurred with golden afternoon light, and in the quiet between them, something deeper stirred. Recognition, perhaps. Or the uneasy ache of almost knowing.

They didn’t say it out loud.

But something in them both knew this wasn’t the first time they’d shared something honest beneath the weight of a lie.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

An hour had slipped by, unnoticed in the way only shared silences and half-whispered laughter could allow. Arabella let out a soft, weary sigh and leaned back in her chair, stretching just enough to tilt her face toward the vaulted ceiling above. Her pen tapped absently against the blank margin of her notebook, a steady, rhythmic beat that barely masked her frustration.

“Honestly,” she murmured, tilting her head toward him, “if I have to read one more paragraph about twentieth-century trade reform, I might actually start agreeing with my father instead of arguing with him every conversation.”

Dick huffed a quiet laugh, his mouth twitching into a grin. “That bad?”

“You have no idea.” She cast him a sidelong glance, sharp with dry humour. “How are you still upright? You used to fall asleep halfway through committee meetings. This is ten times worse. No pastry trays. No drama. Just footnotes and pure economic despair.”

He smirked, one eyebrow raised. “That was years ago. And in my defence, your grandmother’s voice is basically white noise set to a metronome.”

Arabella snorted, a rare sound that slipped free before she could help it. “She still calls you Richard, by the way. Even after you very politely begged her not to.”

“She does it to get under my skin.”

“She does it because she likes you more than she likes me.”

Dick leaned back, slouching just enough to look vaguely roguish. “That’s debatable. She still brings up that fencing tournament you ditched for that gallery opening.”

Arabella gave an exaggerated flutter of her lashes. “I had to maintain my delicate public image. And I still beat you the last time we actually crossed swords.”

“You beat me once,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her with mock indignation.

She shrugged, the picture of smug elegance. “Yeah, because all the other times we were supposed to fence, you were, somehow, always unavailable, doing god knows what.”

Their banter tapered off into a gentle quiet, one that felt less like a lull and more like the breath between two thoughts. The mood shifted — subtly, but unmistakably — like the temperature had dropped by a single degree, or like the lighting had changed without warning.

Arabella glanced down at her notebook, its empty pages staring up at her. She didn’t move to write.

“This week’s been... strange,” she said at last, voice lower now. More thoughtful.

Dick leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “Yeah. I’ve been getting that vibe.”

Arabella’s eyes didn’t leave the page. “Do you ever feel like… there’s something right in front of you, and you can’t quite see it yet? Like you’re circling around a truth that hasn’t introduced itself?”

Dick’s gaze lingered on her, searching, softening. “All the time.”

Their eyes met, and something in the air stilled, a quiet flicker between them. Gone were the masks of the trust fund prince and the billionaire heiress. In their place were two people barely old enough to shoulder the weight they carried, yet already fluent in the language of concealment. Of secrets wrapped in charm. Of truths they couldn’t say aloud.

“Mr Grayson. Miss Luthor,” called a voice from below, the teacher’s. “Ten minutes remaining.”

Arabella was the first to look away, blinking as though pulling herself back to the present. She flipped to a new page and forced her pen into motion.

“Guess we should look productive,” she said, the words light but not flippant.

“Suppose so,” Dick murmured, though his eyes didn’t leave her right away.

She scribbled a few scattered lines, nonsense, really, then paused, her voice quieter now. “Thanks for the company. It’s nice not having to pretend quite so much.”

Dick’s reply was immediate, but soft. “You never have to pretend with me.”

That made her still. Just for a moment. Just long enough for it to matter.

“Careful,” she said finally, a small, crooked smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Say things like that and I might start thinking you mean them.”

Dick tapped the end of his pencil lightly against her notebook, his grin tempered with something gentler. “Maybe I do.”

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Mount Justice

October 18th – 17:23 EDT

The sky above Mount Justice shimmered with the soft, fading hues of twilight, lavender bleeding into amber, gold kissing the edges of scattered clouds like the world was holding its breath before nightfall. The last shards of sunlight caught on the water below, casting ripples of molten light across the inlet’s restless surface.

Artemis sat perched on the edge of the training deck’s rooftop, her silhouette carved against the horizon, cross-legged with her boots swinging idly in the open air. Her ponytail shifted slightly in the breeze, strands catching the light like pale fire. The wind here was sharper than below, but not unkind—brisk and briny, a reminder of the ocean’s endless pull. Below, waves lapped steadily against the stone foundation of the cave, a rhythmic, grounding sound.

Nyx moved silently across the rooftop, the soles of her boots whispering against the concrete. She hadn’t meant to follow Artemis up here. But something in the stillness had tugged at her—a quiet gravity in Artemis’s posture, the kind that didn’t ask for company but didn’t quite refuse it either.

She paused a few feet away, letting the silence stretch. It wasn’t awkward. It was thoughtful. Tentative. Drawn in by the hush, by the unspoken something hanging in the air between wind gusts and water song.

“You always brood up here, or am I just special?” Nyx asked, folding her arms as she stopped beside her.

Artemis glanced up, her expression unreadable. “Just needed air. Thought you might, too.”

A pause. Then, without waiting for permission, Nyx sat beside her. They sat like that for a minute, shoulder to shoulder, both pretending they weren’t waiting for the other to speak first.

Finally, Artemis broke the silence. “So... what happened between you and Robin?”

Nyx stiffened just slightly. Her gaze didn’t leave the sky. “That obvious, huh?”

“Only to someone who actually pays attention to how you both act when the other walks into a room.” Artemis turned, leaning her elbow against her knee. “You used to glare at him, make snarky comments, or even unknowingly, or maybe even knowingly, flirt with him. Now you look... sad.”

Nyx laughed softly, but there wasn’t much humour in it. “We talked. After the simulation.”

“And?”

“We decided to wait. Until we figure out what all this means,” she gestured vaguely, somewhere between her heart and sky. “Neither of us... knows what we’re feeling. Not really. Not yet.”

Artemis gave a short nod. “So that’s it?”

“I thought it would help,” Nyx whispered. “Give us clarity. Space. But instead... everything feels heavier.”

Artemis studied her. “You’re not used to being this close to people, are you?”

Nyx swallowed. “It’s not just that.”

“Then what is it?”

Nyx didn’t answer right away. Her breath caught. She hadn’t meant to speak of it aloud, but Artemis’s tone was too gentle. Too knowing. The walls around her cracked.

“I’m scared,” she admitted. “What if he finds out who I really am and it ruins everything? What if I feel something, and he doesn’t? Or worse... what if he does and it changes me?”

Artemis said nothing. She just listened.

Nyx turned away, blinking hard. “I’ve spent so long trying to be in control. Of everything. And now I don’t even know how to label this.”

Her voice shook at the edges now, and when Artemis touched her arm, she flinched—then stayed still.

“I’m tired,” she said, finally. “Of lying. Of hiding. Of feeling so much and not knowing what any of it means.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.

Artemis’s voice was low. “Then don’t figure it out alone.”

And that broke it. Nyx’s composure crumbled like ash in the wind. She pressed the heel of her hand to her eyes, under her sunglasses, trying to hold herself together, but it was no use. The sob escaped anyway, ragged and sudden.

“I didn’t mean to feel anything for him,” she said through clenched teeth. “But I do. And I hate that I don’t even understand what that means .”

Artemis wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a quiet hug. Nyx didn’t resist. For once, she let herself lean into someone. Just for a moment.

“I’ve got you,” Artemis whispered. “We all do.”

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The hallway was dim, the lights low for the night cycle. Robin sat slouched against the wall, one leg bent, the other stretched out in front of him. His gloves were tossed beside him. His domino mask still clung to his face, but his shoulders were tense, eyes unfocused, as though replaying something on an endless loop behind them. Wally approached quietly, a protein bar in hand. He crouched beside him without a word, offering the bar like a peace treaty.

Robin blinked and took it. “Thanks.”

“No prob,” Wally said, leaning back against the opposite wall with a soft grunt. “Figured you hadn’t eaten anything real today. Don’t tell M’gann, or she’ll bake another sympathy pie.”

Robin gave a weak snort. “Last one was green.”

Wally smirked. “Yeah. ‘Space-spice matcha’. Whatever that means.”

Another silence unfurled between them—not heavy, not strained. Just there. Like the kind that settled between old friends when words felt unnecessary. Familiar in the way late nights and too many missions had made them.

Wally shifted beside him, the rustle of his jacket brushing against the cool metal of the bench. He tilted his head slightly, studying his best friend’s profile in the fading light. The shadows played across Robin’s mask, but it wasn’t enough to hide the weariness in his posture—the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his gloved fingers fidgeted against the edge of his utility belt like they were looking for something to grip, something to hold onto.

“You’ve been off,” Wally said quietly, not accusing—just observant, like always when it came to him.

Robin didn’t answer. His chin dipped just a little, the only response a flicker of breath that barely stirred the air between them.

Wally pressed on. “I mean, we’ve all been off. PTSD-level off. But you... You’ve been somewhere else entirely.”

Robin swallowed, eyes still fixed on the opposite wall.

“You wanna talk about it?” Wally asked, quieter now.

“…It’s complicated,” Robin said eventually.

Wally raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Well, I’ve got a whole two degrees in ‘Complicated.’ Hit me.”

Robin’s shoulders tightened, breath shallow as he drew in the cold night air like it might brace him for the words.

“It’s Nyx,” he said, voice low, fragile in a way Wally almost didn’t recognise.

Wally froze, his casual lean against the railing forgotten. He hadn’t expected Robin to say her name. Well, he hadn’t expected her name out loud in admittance. 

Robin's eyes fluttered shut, and for a second, he looked impossibly young. Just a kid with too much weight on his back and nowhere to put it. His jaw clenched, and when he spoke again, his voice cracked, only slightly, but it splintered through Wally like a crack through glass.

“She… she died in there. In the simulation.” He swallowed hard. “And I—” His breath hitched. “I lost it.”

The words hung there, raw and trembling, like a wound left open.

Wally didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just waited, heart thudding with the quiet understanding that this—this was the kind of grief they didn’t train for.

“I couldn’t save her,” he murmured. “I felt it happen. Like it really happened. I keep seeing her fall. Hearing her--,” He cut off, jaw tightening. “She was just gone. And I didn’t even know what that meant to me until then.”

“You care about her.”

Robin looked up at him, raw and exposed in a way Wally rarely saw.

“I don’t know how not to,” he said quietly.

Wally nodded, absorbing that. Then, with a little smirk: “So... are we talking ‘care’ care or ‘care’ care?”

Robin rolled his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. “I don’t even know. It’s not like we… planned it. It just… happened. There was this moment. After… we kissed.”

Wally’s eyebrows shot up. “Dude.”

“It was stupid. Desperate. We were both a mess. It didn’t mean anything.”

“Didn’t it?” Wally asked, not unkindly.

Robin didn’t answer.

Wally leaned forward. “Look, I’m no expert—”

“Understatement of the year.”

Wally ignored that. “—but I know you. And you’ve never looked at anyone the way you look at her.”

Robin blinked. “I do?”

Wally shrugged. “You get all… tunnel vision. Like the rest of us fade out when she walks into the room.”

Robin exhaled shakily, leaning his head back against the wall. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know who she is. I just… feel like I know her.”

“Then maybe,” Wally said carefully, “it’s not about who she is under the mask. Maybe it’s about who she is when she’s around you.”

Robin stared at the ceiling. The silence stretched.

“I’m scared, Wally,” he said eventually. “Not of her. Of what I might feel. What it could cost.”

Wally gave a soft laugh. “Welcome to the club, bro.”

Robin looked at him.

“We’ve got jackets,” Wally added, grinning slightly.

Robin finally gave a real smile, small and tired, but real.

“Thanks,” he said.

Wally bumped his shoulder. “Always. Now eat the damn bar before I steal it back.”

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Happy Harbour Mall

October 19th – 14:52 EDT

It had taken some convincing, but eventually, Black Canary and Red Tornado agreed that the team could do with a day off—something to blow off steam, remind them that they were still teenagers. M’gann had been the one to suggest the mall, and once Artemis and Wally were on board, the rest of the team had no choice but to go along with it.

The Zeta Beam landed them in an inconspicuous alleyway, and one by one, the team emerged in civilian clothes. Nyx was last, she was wearing a tube top and jeans. And her glasses, of course. Robin was already waiting at the edge of the alley, glasses perched on his nose, hood pulled up. For a moment, their eyes met, though hidden behind layers of plastic and glass, the contact still felt charged.

“Try not to look so suspicious,” Artemis muttered as she walked by the two of them, nudging Wally beside her. “Honestly, I’ve seen less shady bank robbers.”

Wally laughed. “You know, if we were robbing a bank, I’d at least be dressed better.”

“You’re wearing a hoodie and sweats,” Nyx deadpanned. “The only thing you’re robbing is fashion sense.”

Wally clutched his chest in mock pain. “Wow. Friendly fire.”

Robin stifled a grin, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Don’t worry, Wally, you’re still the fastest underdressed guy I know.”

“You two really don’t hold back,” Artemis muttered, though a smile tugged at her lips.

The mall was crowded, as expected on a Saturday, and the group naturally split off in pairs and trios as they wandered. Nyx kept close to M’gann at first, chatting about new cafés and books, but she kept finding herself pulled back into Robin’s orbit.

At the food court, the team reconvened with milkshakes, chips, and greasy burgers. Nyx sat beside Artemis, with Robin across from her. At some point during the meal, their feet brushed under the table. Neither of them moved.

“Okay, but hear me out,” Wally was saying, mid-rant. “A pretzel dog is the ultimate food. Portable. Delicious. Iconic.”

“It’s glorified roadkill in a pastry,” Artemis shot back, wrinkling her nose.

Nyx glanced at Robin, arching a brow. “You eating anything or just observing like a brooding gargoyle?”

Robin leaned back, sipping his drink through a straw. “Just waiting to see if Artemis actually throws something at Wally.”

“She’s come close,” Wally chimed in, ducking dramatically when Artemis raised a chip threateningly.

M’gann took a group selfie then—arms stretched out, grinning ear to ear, pulling in Kaldur, Conner, Artemis, and Wally. Robin leaned in just enough for Nyx to be caught in the frame, their shoulders touching. She glanced up at him mid-photo, startled by how close he was, and smiled without thinking. He didn’t move either.

Artemis caught the look. Her eyes flicked to Wally, who met them with a barely suppressed smirk.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The arcade buzzed with life, ringing bells, clashing sounds, and flashing neon lights bouncing off the walls like a visual sugar rush. The team split into the space together, an unmistakable force of energy in their casual clothes and signature mischief.

M’gann was already tugging Connor towards the claw machines, her eyes alight with delight. “They’ve got tiny stuffed elephants!” she gasped.

“I’ll win you five,” Connor replied with the utmost seriousness, already rolling his shoulders like he was preparing for battle.

Artemis and Wally made a beeline for the basketball hoop machine, Wally cracking his knuckles like he was entering the Olympics. “Loser buys milkshakes,” he grinned.

“You’re on,” Artemis said, tying her hair up with a look of pure challenge. “Don’t cry when I wipe the floor with you.” Kaldur laughed and joined them, leaving Nyx and Robin in front of the pinball machine.

“Have you ever played pinball?” Robin asked, hands in his jacket pockets.

Nyx eyed the machine. “Does Shadow Vortex Nine count?”

He gave her a look. “You made that up.”

“Did I?” she said innocently, brushing past him to drop a token in the machine.

They played in silence at first, save for the clinking of the machine and the ping of lights. Robin glanced at her out of the corner of his eye as she leaned into the game, hyper-focused. She was biting her bottom lip slightly. The way she looked under the glow of neon made his stomach twist.

She caught him staring. “You’re terrible at subtlety.”

He blinked. “You noticed that through glasses?”

She smirked. “You're not the only one who can track micro-expressions, Boy Wonder.”

There was a beat of silence.

“You really should let me win,” he said.

“That’s cute,” she replied. “You're assuming you have a chance.”

The ball clunked into the abyss. 

[GAME OVER.]

Robin sighed. “I stand corrected.”

Their arms brushed as they stepped away from the machine. Neither of them said anything about it. 

The man behind the counter gestured for her to pick a prize. Nyx’s eyes drifted across the wall of garish stuffed animals and trinkets, the kind that screamed childhood and cheap nostalgia. Her fingers hovered for a second over a bright purple octopus, then a moon-faced panda, before stopping entirely.

A small, red plush bird sat tucked between louder, flashier toys. Its round eyes were stitched with a quirk of mischief, its wings slightly too large for its tiny body. She reached for it without fully understanding why.

“A robin?” the man asked, quirking a brow as he handed it over.

Nyx took it gently, her fingers brushing the soft fabric. “Yeah,” she said, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Felt right.”

Behind her, she could hear the others laughing—Wally trying (and failing) to win M’gann something from the claw machine and Artemis teasing Kaldur for his snack choices. And somewhere in the corner of her mind, she knew he was watching.

She tucked the robin plush beneath her arm, the silent weight of it oddly comforting. It was just a prize. Just a game. But it stayed in her hands a little longer than necessary. And she didn’t let go.

Robin caught the moment out of the corner of his eye, mid-conversation with a stranger asking for directions. He’d just been turning to answer their question when his gaze landed on her at the prize counter.

Nyx.

She stood there, shades tucked atop her head, expression unreadable as usual—except for the faintest crease in her brow as she scanned the plush wall like it might offer her something more than just cheap fabric and polyester stuffing. And then she chose it.

A robin.

Robin blinked. He half-laughed under his breath, the sound quick and confused, almost involuntary. Of all the options. A tiny, ridiculous, red plush version of him.

“Something funny?” Kaldur asked as he walked towards them.

“No—no, nothing,” He replied quickly, waving him off. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Not really.

She held the toy in her arms with an absent-minded gentleness, like she wasn’t even aware she’d done it. Like it had simply… happened. As if some unconscious part of her had reached for the most familiar thing in the room.

The thought warmed his chest and tied his stomach in a knot at the same time. He didn’t even know why it mattered so much. Why that soft, silent decision of hers felt like it held meaning. Maybe it didn’t. But the robin nestled in her arms, feathered and bright and oddly fitting, said otherwise. And for a fleeting moment, he wished she knew. Not just who he was. But what he was thinking. Feeling. Because if she’d picked that bird for a reason…

He didn’t know if he could take not knowing what it meant.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

By late afternoon, the group met again at the central fountain, laden with shopping bags and sugary snacks. M’Gann had somehow acquired four candles shaped like alien spacecraft. Artemis was wearing novelty sunglasses shaped like stars. Wally was loudly narrating an entire fake documentary about her.

“Notice the rare Artemis in her natural habitat,” he said, holding his phone up like a camera. “She glares. She smirks. She prepares to kill.”

“Keep it up,” Artemis warned, “and I’ll be an endangered species.”

As the group laughed and joked, Robin and Nyx drifted toward the back. They didn’t touch. They didn’t speak. But they stood close. The buzz of their earlier tension lingered, subtle but undeniable.

“Those two are about as lowkey as a marching band,” Artemis muttered under her breath to Wally.

Wally leaned over. “You think they’ll ever figure it out?”

Artemis glanced at the pair, noting how Nyx’s fingers hovered near Robin’s hand but never quite touched. “Eventually. Or they’ll combust from tension. One or the other.”

The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the mall floor as the team made their way toward the exit, joking and bickering like a real family. Whatever had happened between Robin and Nyx was simmering beneath the surface, not mentioned, today at least, yet ever-present.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The sun had dipped low behind the jagged Gotham skyline by the time the team regrouped in the quiet alley where they'd first arrived. The soft hum of the Zeta Tube buzzed in the background, a low, familiar sound. There was a different kind of stillness in the air now, not heavy or sombre, but light, like the moment just after a storm has passed. It was the calm that came from a day full of laughter, teasing, and more sugar than anyone could reasonably handle.

Everyone seemed a little sun-warmed and weary. Their arms were laden with shopping bags, and their cheeks glowed with the faint flush of arcade games and mock chases through the food court. The air was still warm from the day's activities, and the collective energy hung like a soft hum in the background, but it wasn’t the kind that would keep you awake all night—it was the kind of quiet that was earned, not forced.

M’gann was practically radiating joy, her smile wide and genuine as she bounced on the balls of her feet. She had gushed about how fun the day had been three times already, her words a melodic rush that almost drowned out the other conversations. “We have to do this again,” she insisted, her voice practically glowing with enthusiasm. “Next time, laser tag?”

Connor gave a slight nod, clearly exhausted but not unwilling to go along with whatever M’gann wanted. It was an unspoken rule of their friendship.

Wally, always the instigator, adjusted the ridiculous novelty sunglasses perched on his head, a pair he'd kept on since Artemis dared him in the food court. “I’m just saying,” he piped up, smirking, “if we’d done the food court challenge, I would’ve won. Hands down.”

Artemis, who had been walking a step behind him, snorted in amused disbelief. “You nearly passed out without a challenge. That milkshake was a war crime.”

Nyx trailed behind the group, arms folded loosely as she took in the scene. She wasn’t saying much, but then again, she didn’t need to. The occasional glance she exchanged with Robin spoke volumes more than any words could have. She walked with a kind of quiet grace, a little removed from the general chatter, yet not excluded from it. Her presence was there, felt, even in her silence.

Robin, for his part, was a few steps ahead, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, his posture relaxed but his movements slightly more cautious as he drifted closer to Nyx. His usual assured gait was just a little more measured today, like he was mindful of something, of someone. They weren’t touching, hadn’t been in a while, but there was an unmistakable magnetism between them. Somehow, no matter how much space there was, they kept finding their way to each other. Wally, being Wally, noticed immediately. Again.

He sidled up beside Artemis and tilted his head toward Robin and Nyx, raising an eyebrow in exaggerated subtlety. “Okay, that’s like… the sixth time today.”

Artemis smirked but didn’t look away from the pair. “They can’t help it. They just… drift.”

Wally grinned, dramatic as ever. “Gravitational pull of unresolved feelings,” he declared, throwing an arm over Artemis’s shoulder with a flourish. “Newton would be proud.”

“Newton didn’t say anything about pining teenagers who are usually in tactical gear,” Artemis retorted dryly.

“Didn’t he?” Wally shot back, clearly enjoying himself.

Back at the Zeta Tube, Kaldur keyed in the coordinates for Mount Justice, his fingers flying over the panel with practised ease. His gaze shifted to the team, assessing. “We’ll travel in two groups. We shouldn’t all arrive at once. Just in case.”

Robin, ever the planner, added smoothly, “Codenames only. Keep the pattern.”

His eyes flicked up, meeting Nyx’s in an unspoken exchange. She caught it, the soft look in his gaze, the weight behind it, and gave a single nod. “Understood.”

The first group vanished in a flash of light—M’gann, Connor, Wally, and Artemis, their laughter still lingering in the alley like the fading sound of a distant echo. Now, only Kaldur, Nyx, and Robin remained. Kaldur keyed in the next set of coordinates, his movements deliberate. Without a word, he stepped toward the Zeta pad, glancing between Nyx and Robin.

“I will go ahead,” he said, his voice neutral, but his gaze lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. “The two of you can follow in a moment.”

Nyx blinked, her brow furrowing slightly in confusion, but Kaldur had already keyed in the sequence and was stepping onto the pad. He glanced back once more, his expression unreadable. But his eyes, those sharp, perceptive eyes, lingered on Robin and Nyx just long enough to say everything he needed to.

Then, in a shimmer of light, he was gone. Silence hung in the air between them.

Robin turned slightly, his posture shifting just a little as he looked toward her, his hands buried deeper in his hoodie pockets. “Nice of him,” he remarked, his voice low and casual.

Nyx huffed a soft laugh, brushing her thumb along the edge of her wrist as though the action could ground her. “He’s not subtle, is he?”

“Subtlety is overrated,” Robin replied, the words light but his voice softer, quieter now, like there was something else he wanted to say but wasn’t sure how to begin.

The hum of the Zeta Tube was the only sound between them. The quiet stretched out like a delicate thread, pulled tight between them, and it felt heavier now. The air around them seemed charged, like something important was waiting just beneath the surface, neither of them willing to disturb it.

Nyx glanced up at him, then quickly averted her gaze again. “You were… different today.”

“Different how?” Robin asked, his head tilting slightly in that way he did when he was genuinely curious, but there was an underlying note of something else in his tone. Something more cautious.

“Lighter,” she said, her voice quieter now, her arms crossing tighter against her chest as though she were protecting something. “Less guarded. But still… you.”

Robin tilted his head, a faint, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “That’s not a bad thing, is it?”

“No,” she answered softly. “It’s not.”

The pause that followed stretched long between them, the weight of unspoken words and unresolved thoughts heavy in the air. There was something delicate about it, something fragile.

“Funny,” Robin said eventually, his voice barely a murmur, like he was testing the silence to see if it would carry his words. “I was going to say the same about you.”

Nyx’s heart skipped a beat. She swallowed, glancing away as if to distract herself from the intensity of the moment. Her pulse raced, thudding in her ears as she fought to keep the moment from becoming too much.

For a second, it felt like they were back in that quiet hallway outside the training rooms—just them, no mission, no simulation, no masks. Just the space between them, heavy with things unsaid.

Nyx took a deep breath and looked back at him, determined to break the silence. “We should go.”

Robin didn’t move, his expression softening, his gaze steady. “Wait.”

She froze, her breath catching in her throat at the gentle insistence in his voice.

“I don’t want this to get more complicated than it already is,” he said, his words slow, careful. “But…”

Nyx’s gaze sharpened, her heart picking up pace again. “But?” she prompted, unable to keep the curiosity out of her voice.

He shook his head, his lips parting as if he wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words. “No. Never mind.”

A beat passed, their eyes meeting again. Without another word, Nyx stepped onto the Zeta pad beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. It was an accidental touch, but it was enough. The moment lingered, unspoken, heavy, but fleeting. Then the Zeta Beam flared to life, and the alley disappeared in a flash of light.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Mount Justice

October 19th – 18:12 EDT

The Zeta Tube flickered as the team reappeared in the mountain, their laughter still lingering in the air like the last notes of a good song. Bags from Happy Harbour Mall hung from Wally’s wrists, one already half-ripped at the bottom from the sheer number of snacks stuffed inside. Artemis was mid-sentence, recounting how she’d caught Wally trying to cheat in the arcade air hockey match.

“I saw you nudge the table, West.”

Wally held up a hand. “Innocent until proven guilty.”

“You were literally caught.”

“Yeah, but I looked good doing it,” he shot back, grinning.

Kaldur chuckled under his breath as M’gann floated beside him, quietly admiring the scented candles she’d insisted everyone sniff until they nearly passed out from lavender-induced bliss. Robin and Nyx trailed in a few steps behind. Neither spoke. The tension between them had faded slightly, dulled by the shared fun of the day, but something unsaid still lingered in the air. A magnetism. Unacknowledged but ever-present.

Wally glanced back at the pair and nudged Artemis discreetly. She raised an eyebrow, then followed his gaze, catching the way Nyx laughed softly at something Robin murmured under his breath. It wasn’t their usual sharp banter but something gentler. Warmer.

“You seeing this?” Wally whispered.

“Since the mall,” Artemis muttered, eyes narrowing with a touch of smugness. “They don’t even realise it.”

Robin brushed Nyx’s shoulder slightly as they passed through the corridor toward the kitchen. She didn’t pull away. Just looked at him, amused.

“You’re awful at those crane machines,” she said, sipping the iced tea she’d brought home.

“I maintain they were rigged.”

“I maintain you’re bad at it.”

“Yet you still gave me the tokens you won.”

She shrugged. “Felt sorry for you.”

He quirked a brow. “Liar.”

Nyx only smiled, not quite denying it. Behind them, Artemis gave Wally another knowing nudge. Once inside the kitchen, the team dumped their loot and set about prepping a mess of snacks, fizzy drinks, crisps, reheated pretzels, and one very unfortunate packet of “extra spicy” chips that had Wally on the floor wheezing.

“Who even bought this? It tastes like lava and regret,” he choked out.

“That was me,” Nyx said dryly. “You’re welcome.”

M’gann levitated a fruit skewer and tapped Wally on the nose with it. “You ate four whole handfuls before you asked.”

“Because I trusted you!” he wailed. “Why do you betray me like this?”

Even Kaldur cracked a real smile at that.

From her seat on the counter, Artemis leaned toward Nyx as everyone settled into the warmth of shared chaos. “That was fun,” she said. “You seemed… lighter today.”

Nyx took a moment before answering, watching Robin across the room, who had sat near the entrance but kept glancing toward her.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “It was.”

But her gaze lingered too long. Artemis didn’t miss it.

“You two good?”

Nyx blinked. “Who?”

“Come on,” Artemis said, rolling her eyes. “I may not be Wally, but I’ve got eyes.”

Nyx looked down at her cup. “We’re still figuring it out. I mean, I know we said we’d wait. Until we both understood what this is.”

Artemis looked at her friend, at the slight tremble in her fingers, at the guarded hope in her voice. “And do you?”

Nyx hesitated. “I don’t know. I think… I want to.”

Artemis reached out, rested a hand over hers. “That’s enough for now.”

Nyx nodded, swallowing back the ache rising in her throat. Across the room, Robin met her gaze. Just for a second. And this time, she didn’t look away.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Mount Justice

October 19th – 18:36 EDT

Nyx had changed out of her clothes and into something far more comfortable—a soft, oversized jumper that slipped off one shoulder and a pair of jersey shorts. Her hair had been hastily tied up into a messy bun, a few stubborn strands curling loosely around her face. She padded barefoot across her room at Mount Justice, the quiet hum of the base like distant white noise.

Her gaze drifted to the corner of the room, where Robin’s jacket hung neatly over the armchair. Next to it, nestled on the cushion, sat the robin plushie she’d won at the arcade earlier that day. A small, warm smile curved her lips. Two little things. Two reminders of him. Tucked away in the corner, but not out of mind.

Today had felt… different. Better. Like a much-needed reset. Spending the afternoon at the mall with the team had stirred something inside her she hadn’t felt in a long time. Normalcy. Teenagedom. Laughter that wasn’t laced with strategy or tension. For a fleeting moment, she’d been able to forget about the weight she carried on her shoulders. For a moment, she'd just been a girl eating noodles with friends. A girl playing games. Laughing at jokes. Holding a plush bird and teasing a boy with bright blue eyes behind tinted glasses.

She climbed into bed, settling into the plush covers and propping a pillow behind her back. Reaching for her phone—a sleek device she seldom used around the team for fear someone, especially Artemis, might recognise it—she hesitated for a moment before unlocking it. Her thumb hovered over the gallery icon. She scrolled slowly through old photographs. Most were expected: fencing competitions, charity galas, sunlit brunches with Anne-Marie and Charlotte. Carefully curated snapshots of her life as Arabella Luthor.

But then she found photos of her and Dick.

The grin stretched wider across her face, unbidden. He looked so young in some of them—grinning with ice cream, or mid-eyeroll during a formal event, or in a suit that was slightly too uncomfortable for him during one of the many galas they’d both been dragged to. They had grown up in the same world, moved through the same circles. He was her best friend. Her person. The one constant in a life full of secrets and shadows.

And yet… he didn’t know.

He didn’t know she was Nyx. He didn’t know what she was truly capable of. What she had endured. What her father was. She’d wanted to tell him. So many times. When they were kids, sneaking macarons off the dessert trays. When he’d defended her at a press event. When she’d cried after her mother’s annual memorial, when they were eleven, and he hadn’t said a word—just held her hand in silence. She wanted to tell him now more than ever. But she couldn't. Would he look at her the same?

She set the phone down gently on her bedside table and stared up at the ceiling, arms folded over her chest. The shadows in the room stirred slightly in the corners, flickering like silent breath.

What would her life have been if things had gone differently?

If her mother had lived. If her father hadn’t experimented on her. If she hadn’t been turned into something dark and dangerous. If she could just be Arabella Luthor—smart, spirited, ambitious—but normal.

Would she still have become Nyx? Would Robin have still looked at her the way he sometimes did? Would she have been brave enough to tell him the truth?

The room was still. And the robin plushie remained where it sat—quiet, small, and oddly symbolic.

She wasn’t ready to give up her secrets.

Chapter Text

The Batcave

October 31st – 16:36 EDT

The air in the Cave was cold, colder than usual, as if the walls themselves sensed the mood. Fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow across the metal walkway, the hum of electronics steady and low like a held breath.

Nyx descended first, boots whispering against steel as she adjusted her sunglasses, their gold-tinted lenses catching the light like a predator’s eye. Shadows clung to her shoulders like smoke, her silhouette somehow darker than the space around her.

“You’ve never summoned the both of us here at the same time,” she said, her tone dry but curious. “Feels ominous.”

The past couple of weeks in the Cave with Robin had been surprisingly uneventful—at least on the surface. True to their word, they kept their promise: they would wait until the time was right. No reckless moves. No impulsive confessions. Just... patience.

But that unspoken agreement didn’t stop the inevitable pull between them.

It was subtle at first. A few extra seconds spent standing a little too close during sparring sessions—an almost casual brush of the shoulder when passing in the hallway. Eyes lingering longer than they should across the room. They both fought it, consciously maintaining a polite distance, as if afraid that one wrong step would shatter whatever fragile balance they had built.

Yet the pull was magnetic, irresistible.

Nyx would catch Robin’s gaze during mission briefings, sharp blue eyes softening for a heartbeat before snapping back to business. Robin, for all his wit and bravado, would find himself watching her when he thought she wasn’t looking, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting a smile.

Neither of them said a word about it. But the team noticed.

Wally’s knowing smirks. M’gann’s not-so-subtle glances between the two of them, eyes sparkling with barely contained excitement. Artemis’s dry commentary, usually reserved for moments when they both looked particularly guilty. Even Kaldur, ever composed, would occasionally arch an eyebrow in quiet amusement. And Connor didn’t really pay them any mind.

The tension wasn’t disruptive, not yet. It simply hung there, woven into the fabric of their days, an invisible thread pulling tighter and tighter as time went on. A storm on the horizon.

Robin was already there, lounging with calculated ease against the railing, but his brow ticked up at her remark. “Yeah, what’s the occasion? Let me guess: a Halloween-themed training simulation? Zombies in the bioship?”

Batman didn’t turn. His cape fell in clean, sculpted lines, a monolith of shadow in the centre of the room.

“I’ve been informed M’gann invited the team to her school’s Halloween celebration,” he said, voice clipped as ever, each word delivered like a command.

Nyx gave a low exhale of something that might’ve been amusement. “How quaint, Bruce. Crowded gymnasiums, cheap decorations, hormone-riddled teenagers in masks... practically a security nightmare.”

Robin blinked. “Wait. Did you just call him Bruce?”

She didn’t turn her head, just tilted it slightly toward him, smirk audible in her voice. “The Cave is literally beneath Wayne Manor. Don’t tell me that just clicked.”

He gave a short, surprised laugh, pushing off the rail. “I mean, I had theories. But wow. Okay. Bold.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Nyx might’ve caught the barest flicker of something on Batman’s face, amusement, perhaps, but it vanished before it fully existed.

“Fair,” Robin muttered.

Batman’s tone snapped them back to centre. “Neither of you will be attending. The League has scheduled a closed briefing. You’re required at 20:00 hours. No exceptions.”

The moment fractured. Nyx’s shoulders stiffened, and Robin’s mouth settled into a line.

“Other plans, then,” Nyx said, too flat to be casual.

Robin turned to her, brow raised. “What kind of plans could possibly outrank a League meeting?”

She offered him a sidelong glance, sharp and faintly amused. “You know. Life.”

His grin was light, but there was something beneath it, something that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ah. Life. That vague civilian myth we all pretend to have.”

There was a beat where neither of them said anything. Just the quiet hum of the Cave, and Batman watching like he saw everything.

“This meeting takes precedence,” he repeated, voice like a door slamming shut. “Be prepared.”

Nyx gave a curt nod, though her mind was already racing. Anne-Marie’s insistence on their group costume. Charlotte’s plan for dramatic staircase photos. A Gotham Academy event full of cameras and classmates, Arabella Luthor’s absence would not go unnoticed. She’d need to lie again. Another fencing match. A sudden training accident. Something.

Dick wouldn’t be there, at least. He avoided parties like they carried a disease. Called them a “waste of tactical resources.” She used to tease him about it. Now she was almost grateful.

Batman dismissed them with a flick of his fingers, already turning toward the console.

As they made their way down the corridor toward the Zeta Tube, Nyx toyed with the gold star pendant at her neck—a rare, visible keepsake. Robin matched her pace, his expression unreadable in the dim blue glow of the tunnel.

“Any clue what the meeting’s about?” he asked, his voice lowered.

She shook her head. “Nothing concrete. He didn’t mention who else would be there. Just said it was critical.”

Robin’s fingers twitched at his side. “Could be about Red Tornado’s disappearance. Or something deeper. Darker.”

Nyx didn’t answer at first. Her thoughts were split between her civilian obligations, the careful scaffolding of lies she’d built around Arabella’s life, and the strange, consistent rhythm of being paired off with Robin. Over and over.

Coincidence? Possibly. But unlikely.

“Whatever it is,” she murmured, “it better be worth the fallout.”

Robin gave her a brief look—measured, searching. “You always say that. Like you’re expecting something to give.”

Nyx didn’t flinch. “Something always does.”

He didn’t have a retort for that. Just walked a step ahead, shoulders taut beneath his cape, his silence less comfortable now, thoughtful, weighted. There was something unsaid between them, pressing at the edges.

Not resentment. Not suspicion.

Just the quiet realisation of how much they didn’t know about each other—and how close they already were despite it.

The corridor stretched out before them like a question neither of them knew how to answer.

And the Cave, waiting at the end, never offered clarity—only more shadows.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Mount Justice

October 31st – 19:14 EDT

“What even are you supposed to be?” Nyx asked dryly as she strolled into the main room of the Cave, arms folded neatly across her chest. Her voice was cool, her expression impassive save for the single, sceptical brow arched in Connor’s direction. He sat rigidly on the edge of the sofa, statuesque in his stillness.

“I’m waiting for M’gann to bandage me,” he said flatly. “I’m going as a mummy.”

Nyx blinked. “Right… Funny, I thought you were the parent. Wally’s got more ‘feral child’ energy.”

She broke into a laugh, sharp and sudden, echoing off the stone walls. Connor merely grimaced, clearly used to her barbs.

Before either could speak again, a blur zipped through the room, followed by a howl that was far too theatrical to be taken seriously.

Wally skidded to a stop in the centre of the Cave, arms raised dramatically as he let loose another, far less intimidating “Awooo!” He was swaddled in a fuzzy werewolf costume—ears flopped slightly, faux-claws stitched into fingerless gloves, and a scruffy tail that had already detached and was now dragging behind him like a sad afterthought.

“Come on, big guy, join the pack!” he howled again, nudging Wolf, who cracked one eye open before closing it again with all the disdain of a creature thoroughly unimpressed.

Wally turned, his gaze landing on Nyx. His eyes swept her slowly, taking in the maroon tube top clinging to her frame, the jeans slung low on her hips, the laces of her sneakers tied without care, and those ever-present sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose.

His jaw slackened a little. “Wait— is that your costume?” His voice tilted up, scandalised. “Not that I’m complaining—you look like a total babe, obviously. I just figured our Lady of the Shadows might lean more… I dunno, spooky. Cloaks. Fangs. An aura of existential dread...”

Nyx smirked, unbothered. “Sorry to disappoint. Robin and I aren’t going.”

Wally's brows lifted as a slow, delighted grin spread across his face. “You and Robin. Skipping the party. Together. ” He whistled low. “How very Batsy of you. Shadows, rooftops, lingering glances... romantic brooding under the moonlight.”

Connor actually laughed—short and sharp, rare enough that it startled Wally into a blink.

Nyx shot Wally a look, though there was a curl of amusement on her lips, she didn’t bother hiding.

Right then, M’gann appeared, stepping lightly into the room. To everyone’s surprise, she was dressed in simple jeans and a flowing white top, her usual cheer dimmed just a touch.

Wally’s jaw dropped. “Okay, seriously— is this a coup? All the hot girls ditching Halloween? What happened to tradition? What happened to spooky season? ”

Connor and M’gann shared a glance. It was subtle—just a flick of the eyes, a quiet smile—but it said everything. Nyx caught it instantly. They thought they were being discreet. They weren’t.

“Hold still,” M’gann said sweetly, already unfurling the gauze and circling Connor like a gentle storm.

He lifted his arms without protest, a loyal mummy in the making.

Wally leaned in beside her, voice a conspiratorial whisper that wasn’t really a whisper. “Little awkward, letting the mummy third wheel our date.”

Connor gave him a deadpan look. Nyx outright cackled.

“I invited everyone to the dance,” M’gann said evenly, her smile straining just a touch. “Even Zatanna.”

“Zatanna?” came a new voice—smooth, curious.

Robin sauntered in, biting into a crisp green apple, his damp hair slightly wavy from a recent shower. He was dressed in his usual blend of effortless-cool: dark jeans, a charcoal shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His eyes swept the room before landing on Nyx.

“What about Zatanna?” he asked casually, one brow raised.

“Nothing,” Nyx said quickly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear like it would deflect the sudden jolt of something unpleasant tightening in her chest. “Just that M’gann invited her.”

“Shame we’re not going,” Robin murmured, stepping closer. He smelled of citrus and sandalwood, clean and sharp. “I’d have made a great vampire.”

Nyx turned her head toward him, smiling despite herself. “I was meant to go as a Powerpuff Girl. With my friends.”

Robin’s grin widened. “Let me guess… Blossom?”

“That’s what they said. But I’m definitely more of a Bubbles.”

Robin tilted his head thoughtfully, his eyes alight with mischief. “You’ve got Blossom’s bite… but Bubbles’ laugh.”

Nyx laughed softly. “You’ve watched too many cartoons.”

“Hey, I’m a connoisseur,” he said, raising his arms as if he were caught.

Before the tension could stretch further, Wally butted in.

“So, Nyx.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Your friends from home… do they all look like you? Y’know—gorgeous and terrifying?”

Nyx gave him a look that could’ve sliced steel. “Wally. Are you trying to flirt with my entire friend group by proxy?”

“Only if it works,” he replied with a wink.

Connor groaned. “No wonder Wolf pretends to be asleep when you’re talking.”

The group burst into laughter, the Cave suddenly alive with warmth and mischief. Nyx found herself exhaling without meaning to. For a moment, she could almost forget about the briefing looming ahead.

Then the Zeta Tube flared.

[Recognised: Artemis, B-07; Zatanna Zatara, A-03.]

“Hey, Zatanna! You look great,” Artemis called, striding in with purpose. She was dressed to kill—literally. A sleek vampire ensemble hugged her figure, her cloak swirling behind her, lips painted a rich crimson.

Zatanna stepped in behind her, all dark elegance and classic witchy glamour. A black dress cinched at her waist, wide-brimmed hat tilted just-so, her dark hair cascading in loose waves.

“Thanks—you too. Love the cape,” Zatanna said.

“Hey, you.” Artemis grinned at Nyx, giving her a quick hug. Zatanna followed suit, drawing Nyx into a brief but warm embrace.

“You both look stunning,” Nyx said with a crooked smile. 

“Thanks,” Artemis replied. “You look… comfortable .”

“Wait— you’re not coming? ” Zatanna asked, brow knitting as she glanced down at Nyx’s casual clothes.

“She and Robin are off on secret Bat business,” Wally said solemnly. “Which is obviously code for ‘romantic Halloween rooftop da–’”

Artemis elbowed him before he could keep going, but Zatanna’s eyes were already on Robin.

“Hey, Robin,” she said, smiling coyly.

“Zatanna,” he replied warmly, giving her a small nod. “You’re looking very… spellbinding .”

“Not coming to the party either?” she asked, tone lighter than air.

Robin shook his head with a faint shrug. “Sadly, I’m not. Nyx and I are needed elsewhere tonight.”

Zatanna pouted, just a little. “Shame. I was hoping for some one-on-one time… but I guess that’ll have to happen later instead.”

Nyx looked away, her gaze sweeping toward the jagged edges of the rock wall behind them, where shadows clung like secrets in the dim, flickering cave light. Something fluttered beneath her ribs—not quite pain, not quite heat. A restless, prickling sensation that curled in her chest and refused to settle.

Probably irritation.

Or the left-out Halloween cookies that M’gann had made that she’d picked at earlier.

Definitely not jealousy.

From the periphery of her vision, she caught the twitch of movement—Artemis’s head tilting subtly, brows raised in barely restrained amusement as she met Wally’s eyes. He grinned instantly, sharp and delighted, like he’d just been handed a gift-wrapped opportunity to cause chaos.

“You jealous? ” Wally whispered, leaning closer with a sly smirk that could’ve lit up a neon sign.

Nyx slowly turned her head, one brow arching beneath the dark sweep of her mask, her expression perfectly unimpressed. “As if,” she muttered, crisp as frostbite.

Wally’s grin only grew wider. Emboldened. Dangerous.

“Well,” he said, drawing out the word dramatically as he crossed his arms and leaned back on his heels, “if you ever get bored of brooding with Rob over here, I’m totally available for spooky rooftop glances and emotionally-charged shadow staring.”

He wiggled his brows at her with theatrical enthusiasm.

Nyx rolled her eyes and shoved him—lightly, she thought. At least by her standards.

Wally stumbled back three full steps, arms windmilling like he’d just been bulldozed. “Whoa—okay! What was that? You trying to crack my ribs, Nyx, or just my ego?”

Across the room, M’gann covered her mouth with both hands in a valiant but doomed attempt to stifle a laugh. Her shoulders shook as she turned away, giggles spilling through her fingers.

Artemis gave Nyx a sidelong glance, smirking like she was taking mental notes.

Nyx tilted her head, her voice bone-dry. “Sorry. It’s those supervillain instincts.”

Wally, undeterred, puffed up with mock offence. “You wound me.”

She gave him a saccharine smile. “Not yet.”

“M’gann,” Artemis asked, her voice all honeyed mischief, lips quirking with a sly grin, “what’s your costume again?”

M’gann blinked in surprise—then her expression lit up as green shimmer flared over her body, skin pulsing softly as her form shifted. When the illusion cleared, she stood in haunting perfection: veil torn like it had been clawed by the grave, a wedding gown in tatters, streaked with dirt and crimson. Her skin was pale as bone, makeup ghostly and glamorous all at once—cheeks hollowed, eyes rimmed in dramatic black, lips a faded, dead rose.

A zombie bride. Beautiful and terrible.

“Whoa,” Artemis murmured, half-impressed, half-horrified.

“ Babe,” Wally breathed, eyes wide with theatrical awe, “you can eat my brains any time.”

The silence that followed was... painful. Like a record scratch across reality.

Connor exhaled long and loud, arms folded across his chest with that familiar mix of judgment and exhaustion. “Do you ever listen to yourself?”

Nyx turned her face away just in time to smother a laugh, but her lips betrayed her, twitching upward with the effort. Across from her, Artemis looked like she was actively weighing whether Wally deserved a punch or a medal.

Before she could chime in with something dry and devastating, a sharp buzz flared against Nyx’s back pocket—urgent and distinct, not from her League comm, but her personal phone. She stiffened, fingers slipping with muscle memory into the back pocket of her jeans, the weight of habit settling over her shoulders.

“Excuse me,” she murmured, tone velvet-smooth, already turning on her heel.

She slipped away with the kind of graceful ease that came from a life spent in shadows. The curve of the corridor swallowed her in a blink, darkness cloaking her like a second skin. Her fingers flicked open the screen, shielding the glow from view. The interface blinked with elegant efficiency—a custom design few would recognise, save maybe Artemis, if she ever caught a long enough look.

Anne-Marie.

Nyx exhaled slowly through her nose. Then answered.

“Arabella, I am furious with you,” Anne-Marie’s voice declared at once, crackling with the polish of a theatre kid turned socialite. “I’m suing your fencing club or whatever cult you’ve joined. Missing Halloween? Are you insane? ”

Nyx winced, leaning further into the stone wall as if it could muffle the drama spilling through the line. “I know. I’m annoyed too. Believe me.”

“Thankfully,” Anne-Marie forged ahead, now in full dramatic monologue, “Charlotte and I had backups. I’m Barbie. She’s Raquelle. We’re killing it, but honestly? You’re missing everything. The vibes? Immaculate. The playlist? Perfection .”

A laugh slipped from Nyx before she could catch it. “You always have backups.”

“Obviously. I plan for social disasters, Bells. So—what are you even doing right now?”

Nyx hesitated, eyes drifting back toward the corridor. She could still hear the faint murmur of voices—Wally, probably, still digging his metaphorical grave.

“I’m… talking with the guys I fence with,” she said, vague, non-committal.

Anne-Marie’s voice sharpened, curious and mischievous. “Ooh. Guys? Any cute ones?”

Nyx’s mind stalled. Panic flared—and for some ungodly reason, her mouth followed instinct, not logic.

“Cute ones?” She blurted. Too loud. Far too loud.

She froze, as if the shadows could save her from the echo of her own betrayal.

“Not that it matters,” Anne-Marie breezed on, clearly delighted. “I still say no one beats Dick Grayson. He’d look so good as a vampire—ugh! It kills me that he hates Halloween and never comes to any of the parties. And Artemis ditched us for her old-school friends tonight? I miss her. Anyway, Charlotte’s summoning me for more drinks. Love you! Be less boring! ”

The call ended with a chirpy click.

Nyx stood still for a heartbeat, phone limp in her hand, expression flickering through mortification and reluctant fondness. She slid it away, smoothing her features with a breath so soft it barely stirred the air.

Calm. Cool. Control. She reassembled herself like clockwork—until not even the pink still dusting her cheeks betrayed her.

When she re-entered the room, Artemis was waiting with a raised eyebrow.

“Your friends?”

Nyx nodded with a faint, unreadable smile. “Yeah.”

“Well,” M’gann announced, looping an arm around Connor’s with fresh determination, “we really should get going! Don’t want to be too fashionably late.”

The goodbyes were quick, laughter still buzzing in the air like aftershock. Zatanna tossed a wave over her shoulder, her smile curving toward Robin, lingering longer than strictly necessary.

Nyx blinked. Not her business. She looked determinedly at a crack in the floor, or a vent, or anywhere else.

Moments later, the others vanished through the Zeta Tube, and the main chamber fell into quiet, the glow of monitors casting warm, amber pools across the cave floor.

She turned slowly, the soft scuff of her shoes against concrete barely audible over the low hum of the Cave’s systems. Robin hadn’t moved. He stood exactly where she’d left him—hands tucked into the pockets of dark-wash jeans, shoulders relaxed, head tilted just enough to make it infuriatingly boyish.

And then came that grin.

The one that curled like mischief at the edges of his mouth, subtle and sharp beneath the low lights. The one that made it impossible to tell whether he was about to tease her or steal something—her patience, her breath, her equilibrium.

“So,” he drawled, voice smooth and warm like a secret slipping between cracks in stone, “any cute guys?”

Nyx didn’t answer immediately. She let the silence stretch, let it settle over them like smoke. Then she lifted a single brow, lips twitching into the start of a smirk.

“Zatanna thinks you’re cute.”

Robin gave a pleased little noise low in his throat—a hum that landed somewhere between smug and genuinely delighted. The sound was quick, almost careless, but there was a precision to it, too, like he knew exactly what he was doing to her. Because he did. His grin widened, slow and deliberate, the corner of his mouth tugging up into something mischievous and just shy of dangerous. He tilted his head a fraction more, his hair falling slightly into his eyes, making him look impossibly young and impossibly sure of himself all at once.

"Yeah, well—I'm not asking Zatanna, am I?" he said, voice easy, teasing. But there was an edge beneath it, something real. Something intentional.

For a second, Nyx forgot how to breathe.

The space between them seemed to shift, like the air had thickened, pressing closer around them. It wasn’t tense, exactly—it was sharper, brighter, humming like the charged silence before a thunderstorm splits the sky wide open. Something unspoken had suddenly, irrevocably, gained weight.

And neither of them moved. 

The moment lived in the lingering look, the shared awareness, the pull so palpable it might as well have been a physical thread tying them together.

Her smirk faltered.

And she looked away first.

Not out of fear, but something much, much worse: hope. She swallowed it down with a clearing of her throat—too loud in the quiet, too sharp in the warm hush around them.

“We still have thirty minutes until the meeting,” she said, voice lower now, carefully even.

“I know,” Robin answered, casual as ever—but there was a thread of anticipation beneath it, a current tugging just under the surface. “We could just… chill. My room?”

She blinked, startled. His room?

That was a line. A barrier. A boundary.

And he was opening it.

He didn’t invite people there, not casually. Not often. Even Wally only got access in small, hard-earned bursts. It was private, sacred in its own strange way.

But his tone was light, his posture open. Not a trap. An invitation.

Nyx kept her expression neutral, but her eyes flicked across his face, reading him like a coded message. Then she nodded, lips curving slightly as her voice came cool, laced with a curiosity she didn’t quite mask.

“Sure.”

Their footsteps echoed as they walked side by side down the corridor, boots in rhythm, shadows slipping across their shoulders like whispers. Deeper into the Cave. Away from the others. Away from the warmth and noise of team and costume and chaos.

And for once, she wasn’t the one disappearing into the dark.

She was following someone else into it.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

They walked in silence down the dimly lit corridor, the soft hum of the Cave enveloping them like a blanket—its pulse a steady rhythm, a quiet thrum that reverberated through the very walls. The Zeta Tubes were far in the distance, their faint flickers of energy cutting through the thick, metallic air. The ambient murmur of technology was constant, a gentle whisper embedded in the structure, reminding them of the world they inhabited. Yet Nyx barely registered any of it. Her mind was still racing, her pulse still thumping louder than the distant hum of the Cave.

The door across from hers, the one she’d passed countless times, had always been an enigma. Unmarked, quiet, like a door that belonged to another life. It had always felt like it was a threshold she could never cross. Yet, now, as Robin reached for the doorknob, there was no hesitation. No drawn-out moment of indecision. He simply clicked it open, his fingers brushing the cool metal as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

He stepped back, holding the door open just enough for her to enter, his posture slightly stiff, like he didn’t quite know what to do with his own space now that she was in it. His other hand hung at his side, as if unsure whether to follow through with some action or simply let the moment be.

Nyx stood frozen for a moment, her breath shallow. The room beyond seemed to shift, as if waiting for her to make the first move. She hadn't known what to expect—hadn’t known if it would be dark, suffocating, filled with echoes of his work in the field or a reflection of the persona he wore in front of the team.

But when she crossed the threshold, when the door clicked softly shut behind her, she felt the weight of her expectations shatter. It wasn’t a cavernous den of darkness or shadows as she might have imagined, no walls lined with weapons or sleek gadgets. It was something more… human.

The room was calm. Warm. The walls, painted a muted slate-grey, exhaled quiet stillness. Soft and grounding, the colour settled over everything like a quiet thought, adding to the tranquillity of the space. There was a balance to it, a sense of intentional simplicity that made it feel like a haven, not just a place to crash after long missions.

In the far corner, his bed was neatly made, with navy-blue linens that looked soft, almost inviting. The metal frame was simple, modern, and no frills. The bed’s edge was just a little ruffled, like someone had slept in it not long ago, but it wasn’t messy. It wasn’t chaotic. There were no reminders of haste or disarray. It was the kind of bed that seemed to speak of someone who took care in the way they arranged their space, who made sure it was comfortable but not overdone.

There were no posters, no clutter, nothing that screamed ‘Robin.’ No explosions of colour or symbols splattered across the walls like a shout. It was minimalist, yes, but in a way that felt carefully curated, with purpose. Not cold. Not impersonal. Just… peaceful.

Four lamps, each with soft, golden light, bathed the room in a warm glow, casting shadows that seemed to dance playfully on the walls. They avoided the harsh, clinical bite of overhead fluorescents, creating a gentle atmosphere. The light seemed to wrap the room in a quiet embrace, taking the sharpness from the space and instead softening it, making it feel safe, secure, even in the face of the dark, looming reality they all returned to after a mission.

The plants, low-maintenance succulents and small ferns were scattered around the room like little oases. One sat on the windowsill, its leaves catching the light, the shadows curling around them, as if trying to shelter them from the weight of the world outside. The plants weren’t chosen to impress or show off, they were simply there. Small, quiet green breaths that filled the space with something alive. Something cared for.

Her gaze drifted to the desk beside the window. It was modest, functional, a reflection of his pragmatic nature. A small stack of dog-eared comics, their edges softened with time, lay in the corner. A black mug filled with pens—simple, no-nonsense. A half-read book was left open, the pages gently curling at the edges as though its reader had simply paused. Not abandoned. Just… put down for a moment.

The nightstand beside the bed held another book, spine-up, slightly worn from use. Next to it, a black-and-gold digital clock blinked with quiet precision. 12:14 AM. The time of day that seemed to blur all lines—neither late nor early, just a moment where everything felt suspended.

But it was the wall above the bed that truly caught her attention.

Sketches.

Dozens of them. Pinned with quiet precision, each one placed exactly in its own space, almost geometric in their arrangement. They were raw, real, and so incredibly detailed that they felt alive. Each sketch was a masterstroke of black pencil and ink—every line was filled with purpose, with meaning. Wings mid-beat, feathers layered in delicate strokes that almost seemed to shift with every glance. Talons outstretched, ready to grasp or to take flight. Every feather, every stroke, was executed with a reverence that could not be faked.

Robins.

Different species. Some bold, some fragile. Each captured in its own moment—its own narrative. The way a robin might dive from a branch, the flutter of wings just before landing, the way the wind ruffled the feathers. These weren’t just birds. They weren’t just random drawings.

They were expressions of him, his focus, his thoughts, his soul.

Each robin was an echo of him, rendered in a way that made it clear: this was no passing interest. This was something deeper, something that mattered. The kind of devotion that couldn’t be captured in words, something quieter, something more intimate.

She couldn’t help it. Her breath caught in her chest as she took it all in.

“You drew these?” Her voice emerged soft, reverent. Like she was afraid to disrupt the stillness in the room.

Robin rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks slightly pink beneath the edge of his domino mask. “Yeah. I, uh… I sketch sometimes. Helps me focus.” His voice dropped, an unfamiliar shyness bleeding into it. “I don’t really let people in here.”

Nyx turned her head toward him, something between a smile and a secret tugging at her lips. “I can tell.”

She stepped further in, her shoes silent on the soft charcoal rug. The air smelled faintly of old books and cedarwood, tinged with something sharper underneath—his aftershave, maybe. Clean, crisp, and undeniably him.

Her gaze lingered on the tall bookshelf nestled between the desk and wardrobe, its wooden frame dark and sturdy, the kind of piece that looked as though it had seen decades of life. It stood like a quiet sentinel in the room, a testament to time. The shelves were crammed with a mismatched collection of books—titles in faded gold print, their spines cracked and well-worn, like old friends who had been read too many times to remain pristine. There were battered detective novels, their pages dog-eared and curling, thick graphic novels arranged neatly by series, their pages still crisp and sharp, as if waiting to be devoured.

Her fingers hovered over the familiar worn leather of Wuthering Heights, the book she'd read and re-read countless times. The texture beneath her fingertips was soft with age, the spine creaking slightly in protest as she opened it carefully, as if handling something fragile. The pages inside were a comforting yellow, their edges slightly frayed. As she skimmed through the pages, each word seemed to pulse with the same bittersweet ache she remembered from her first reading, every line a quiet echo of something long buried.

"I didn’t know you liked literature," she murmured, her voice soft with surprise, the words slipping out almost before she realised it.

Robin looked up, startled, his eyes momentarily wide, the usual guardedness in his expression slipping for just a fraction of a second. He took a step toward her, his posture shifting as though he were unsure whether to bridge the gap between them. There was a faint pause before he drifted closer, his presence filling the quiet space between them. His gaze softened as it settled on her, his expression unreadable for a moment before it softened into something closer to understanding.

The weight of her voice lingered in the room, and without breaking eye contact, she opened the book, her fingers brushing over the pages with the tenderness of someone revisiting a long-lost memory. Her voice, when it came, was quieter, more intimate, almost a whisper of its own.

“My favourite quote’s from this one,” she said, her words trailing off as if the very memory of the quote was enough to fill the room. “‘Whatever our souls are made of—’” She paused, her breath catching as she looked at the words she knew so well, “—his and mine are the same.”

“‘—his and mine are the same.’” His eyes softened. The words were already there on his tongue, waiting. With a gentle exhale, he finished her sentence without hesitation, as though he’d recited it a hundred times before, as though he carried it with him always. 

His voice was a quiet echo of hers, the words so seamlessly shared that it almost felt like they were part of the same thought. It left an unexpected tenderness hanging in the air between them, a connection that stretched further than the words themselves. He glanced up at her, meeting her eyes for a split second before averting his gaze, his lips curling slightly into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

Nyx’s eyebrows raised in surprise, her lips pulling into a smile, the quiet laugh that escaped her voice feeling almost breathless. “I didn’t take you for a romantic,” she teased, her tone soft but playful.

Robin, still avoiding her eyes, shrugged slightly, his voice taking on a more self-deprecating edge. “It’s not something I advertise,” he said, his lips quirking as though he had just made a joke at his own expense. But there was a subtle softness to his tone, a flicker of something honest there that was hard to ignore.

Nyx’s laugh was gentle, but it carried a warmth in it that was like a fleeting moment of understanding shared between two people who had always been more guarded than they let on. She tilted her head slightly, her smile lingering. “Go on, then,” she prodded, her voice low with curiosity. “What is your favourite quote?”

Robin didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, his movements slow, almost deliberate, like he was carefully deciding how to close the distance between them. The space between them shrank with every passing second, until it was little more than a breath and then half of one. His presence became more intense as the seconds stretched, the air around them thickening with something unspoken. His storm-blue eyes locked onto hers, behind his sunglasses, steady, searching, as though he were seeing something he hadn’t quite expected.

His fingers lifted, delicate but sure, reaching toward the gold star at her collarbone. His touch was light, hesitant, as if he were asking permission. There was something almost vulnerable in the way he hovered there, his fingertips brushing the star gently, the gesture careful and intimate, an unspoken question between them.

When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than usual. It was different, tender, almost tremulous, as if the words he was about to say were both fragile and important.

“‘Doubt thou the stars are fire; doubt that the sun doth move; doubt truth to be a liar; but never doubt I love,’” he murmured, the words flowing from him with an ease that surprised her.

Nyx’s breath caught in her throat, her heart inexplicably racing at the quiet intensity of what sounded like a confession. The words shimmered between them like spun gold.

“Shakespeare,” she said at last, barely audible.

Their eyes met, hers wide, his soft. Searching. Steady. The air around them had shifted, thickened with something fragile and sacred. His hand was still near her necklace, his fingertips brushing skin now. Just barely.

“Robin…” she breathed, her voice tight with something she hadn’t yet named.

He moved even closer, inch by inch. The hesitation wasn’t fear. It was care. His gaze flickered to her lips, then back to her eyes, waiting. Asking. Nyx slid her hands up his chest, her fingers curling behind his neck. The touch was featherlight, tentative, but full of unspoken clarity.

Her nod was small. But it was everything.

Robin leaned in.

The kiss was a whisper, an invocation of something ancient and aching, tender and true. A murmur of warmth passed between them like breath shared in the hush before dawn. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t stolen. It simply was, as natural and inevitable as a tide rolling in, answering a pull older than thought.

Their lips met slowly, softly, like the first note of a lullaby only they could hear. Robin’s touch was tentative, reverent—fingertips brushing against the curve of her jaw as though afraid she might vanish. His lips were warm, and though he said nothing, every inch of his posture screamed care. Respect. Want held in check by the sheer force of restraint.

Nyx didn’t pull away. She leaned into it like a flower stretching toward sunlight, tilting her body instinctively into his space. Her fingers, previously clenched at her sides, found their way into the dark tangle of his hair, threading through it gently. It grounded her, anchored her to now. To him.

And when they finally parted, it wasn’t abrupt. It was a breath shared on the edge of silence. Their foreheads remained pressed together, noses brushing. The space between them pulsed with quiet gravity, heavy and golden like a cathedral filled with candlelight. Sacred.

Robin exhaled—a shaky, uneven sound that vibrated against her skin. His voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper. “I know we probably shouldn’t have done that…”

Nyx didn’t open her eyes. She nodded, slow and deliberate, lips parted as though caught mid-thought. But she didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back.

And neither did he.

Neither of them knew what came next. What this meant. But something had shifted—subtly, irrevocably—in the marrow of things. An unspoken truth had been drawn out between them like thread pulled taut between hearts.

For Nyx, the feeling curled inside her chest like smoke, frightening only because it didn’t feel frightening at all. The dangerous comfort of being seen. Truly, intimately seen. Just her. Arabella. It terrified her. Not because it felt wrong.

But because it didn’t.

A flush crept into her cheeks, slow, radiant, and uncontrollable. It bloomed with fragile intensity, like the last hush of sunlight slipping beneath the horizon, painting the world in bruised gold and rose. It warmed her skin in soft, expanding waves, starting at the high points of her cheekbones and diffusing downward in a tender, involuntary reveal. Not performative. Not deliberate. Just human. And he saw it, all of it.

Robin watched her like someone seeing something sacred for the very first time. Like a boy who’d spent his whole life chasing shadows and had finally stumbled upon starlight, real and burning, and close enough to touch. Every breath she took seemed to echo in him. His eyes lingered on the curve of her face, reverent, awestruck.

His hand moved before he could think, thumb brushing the flushed slope of her cheekbone with aching care. His fingers barely made contact, as though afraid too much pressure might shatter the moment. The touch was featherlight, hesitant, as if he were in worship. He traced the heat blooming beneath her skin like a cartographer committing holy ground to memory.

God, she was beautiful.

Her hair was tousled from the weight of their kiss, tendrils falling like shadows across her brow. Her lips were flushed, parted slightly, kiss-bitten and soft with wonder. The usual steel in her gaze had melted into something far more dangerous: vulnerability.

She looked utterly undone. And she had never looked more real. She had never looked more herself. Robin didn’t breathe. Didn’t dare to. If he did, he was afraid it might break whatever spell had settled between them. The moment shimmered, delicate as blown glass suspended between two heartbeats.

He hadn’t planned this. Hadn’t expected this night, this quiet, this intimacy, to curve toward something so electric, so irrevocable. He hadn’t come looking for softness. And yet, here it was, blooming between them like moonlight across water, impossible to deny.

It felt like gravity. No, it was gravity. Slow and absolute, pulling him forward, centring him. As if every breath he'd taken before now had been preparing him for this. For her.

She shifted, the smallest of movements, and his hand fell away, reluctantly, reverently, fingers curling into the space where she’d just been.

He didn’t want to let her go. He wasn’t sure he could.

“I didn’t bring you in here just to do that,” he said softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. His fingers lingered, as if reluctant to let her slip away entirely.

Nyx looked up at him, her expression unreadable but far from cold. Something flickered in her eyes—wary, searching, strangely soft. “I know.”

And she did. She knew why he’d brought her here. Not for the kiss. Not for the moment. But because this space, his room, was the only part of Mount Justice that truly belonged to him. His sanctuary. And now, somehow, she belonged to it too.

She glanced toward the door, then back at him. “We should go.”

He didn’t move at first. Just looked at her. Memorising every detail—how the shadows fell across her face, the way the glow of the monitor lights turned her hair to ink, the way her guard had lowered just enough to let him see the girl beneath the legend.

“Yeah,” he said at last, voice low and rough. “We should.”

She turned toward the door, pausing at the threshold with a dry smile curling her lips. “Are you coming, or are you planning to stand there and pine dramatically?”

A laugh broke from him, quiet and startled. Real. “Wouldn’t dream of letting you go alone.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no bite in it anymore. Only warmth. Trust. Not whole—she wasn’t the type to give that easily. But it was there. A seed, beginning to root.

They walked side by side down the corridor, close enough that their shoulders brushed from time to time. The Cave’s usual chill crept in around them, trying to reclaim the space that warmth had occupied, but it couldn’t quite erase the afterglow of what had happened.

“Are we suiting up for this?” Nyx asked, casting him a glance.

Robin shrugged, a hint of mischief returning to his face. “Unless you want to walk into a probable Justice League meeting in jeans.”

She snorted softly. “You wish.”

He grinned. They disappeared into the changing corridor, footsteps quiet but sure, the lingering heat of his room following them like a ghost, subtle, golden, impossible to forget. A promise unspoken. A story just beginning.

Whatever came next, they would face it together.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Mount Justice

October 31st – 20:00 EDT

The pair, now fully suited up, stepped into the mission room, the hiss of the automated doors sighing shut behind them like a held breath released. The lights were low, casting the space in a cool, sterile twilight. Shadows pooled in the corners, stretching long beneath the glow of the holographic display. The air was heavy, thick with silence, the kind that spoke louder than words.

At the head of the room, Batman stood like a sentinel, arms crossed, the contours of his cape cast in sharp silhouette. Kaldur was beside him, calm and still, Red Tornado flanking them with the quiet presence of something ancient and unblinking.

But it was the other figure—leaning against the far wall, half in shadow—who made Nyx stop cold.

Her voice cut through the stillness, flint-edged and flat. “ You. ”

Red Arrow’s arms uncrossed, his weight shifting forward like a predator scenting blood. His eyes met hers with open hostility. “What is she doing here?”

The venom in his voice coiled through the room like smoke. Robin, beside her, shifted his stance minutely, shoulders tightening. A flicker of something dangerous passed through his expression, but he said nothing.

Nyx didn’t so much as blink. She folded her arms slowly, deliberately—like drawing a sword from its sheath. The line of her jaw was carved in marble.

“Enough,” Batman said, voice low and resonant. “Computer—secure the room.”

[Room secured.]

“She’s here for the same reason you are,” Batman continued, turning slightly, his cape rustling like thunder on the horizon. “You’re all here because the question must be addressed.”

Robin moved to one of the deep chairs, slouching into it with his usual flippant grace, though the sharp cut of his eyes betrayed his unease. Nyx remained standing, her presence all coiled tension—quiet, unshaking, like the stillness before a lightning strike.

“I’ll be direct,” Batman said. “Do we believe there is a mole within the team?”

The words dropped like a stone into water. Silence rippled out from them.

“I am convinced there is none,” Kaldur said, stepping forward with a measured calm that was its own kind of authority. “When Sportsmaster spoke of an inside source, he intended only to divide us. There has been no betrayal.”

Robin exhaled through his nose, resting his hands behind his head with a languid confidence. “Villains lie. Big shock. For all we know, his ‘source’ was nothing but a hunch. The League of Shadows reads the same newsfeeds we do. If there was a mole, the chaos during the Injustice League attack would’ve been their prime time to strike.”

“Exactly,” Kaldur nodded. “Yet no such action occurred.”

Red Arrow was unimpressed. His posture remained rigid, jaw set. “Doesn’t mean anything. Sure, you two,” he said, motioning toward Kaldur and Robin, “and Wally are in the clear. But Artemis?” His eyes narrowed. “She’s not who she says she is. And her ?” He jabbed a finger toward Nyx. “She’s a complete enigma.”

Nyx’s eyes glittered, cold and sharp. Not a flicker of emotion crossed her face.

“For starters,” Red Arrow continued, “Artemis isn’t Green Arrow’s niece. That was a lie. And Nyx? I don’t even know what she is. For all we know, she’s working for the other side.”

Kaldur visibly tensed. “You’re mistaken.”

“Am I?”

Robin sighed, sitting forward, his voice edged with dry sarcasm. “So dramatic. Artemis is related to—”

“ Enough, ” Batman said, his voice a blade. One hand settled on Robin’s shoulder with silent authority.

“Artemis’s background has complexities,” he continued. “As does Nyx’s. Their identities are protected for their own safety. That protection is not up for debate.”

His gaze shifted briefly, pointedly, to Nyx. It was not unkind, but it held the weight of implication.

“What concerns me more is Superboy,” Batman said. “Cadmus tampered with his genetic makeup. We still don’t fully know what they programmed into him. He could be the mole… without even realising it.”

Red Tornado gave a solemn nod. The silence that followed was colder this time. Heavier. But Red Arrow wasn’t finished.

He turned back to Nyx, eyes narrowing to slits. “Then let’s hear it. Who are you really?”

Robin stiffened. He didn’t speak, but the crackle of tension between his shoulder blades was palpable.

Nyx arched a brow. Her lips curved into something far from friendly. “None of your fucking business, Speedy. ”

The words landed with precision, like daggers thrown in the dark. Red Arrow’s expression flickered, wounded pride masked by rising anger. But Nyx wasn’t done.

“I’m here because Batman trusts me. Because the team trusts me.” Her voice was quiet, steady, but every word was honed to a razor’s edge. “Maybe it’s time you did the same.”

Robin’s mouth curled into a half-smile. Not mocking—proud. There was something gleaming in his eyes, something that made her chest ache.

But under it all, she felt the tremor in her own armour. The weight of her name. Luthor. If they knew, if anyone found out, this fragile trust would shatter like spun glass. But she was still here. Still standing. Still fighting for it. Because Batman believed in her. 

Because Robin did.

Red Arrow scoffed, turning sharply. “And what about Miss Martian?” he said, turning to the others. “She claims to be Manhunter’s niece. But he told Black Canary he’s got hundreds of them. And the first time he met this niece was when she stowed away on his ship to Earth, five months ago.”

Kaldur stepped forward again, expression resolute. “It changes nothing. I have fought alongside each of them. None are traitors.”

Robin looked between them all, exhaling like he’d heard this song one too many times. “If this is what trust looks like,” he muttered, “remind me to stay cynical .”

Nyx’s arms tightened over her chest. Her voice dropped to a chill. “And how do we know it’s not you, Speedy?”

He blinked. “What?”

“You disappeared for a month, then waltzed back in with a new outfit and name.” She shrugged. “Seems convenient. I’m just saying—it’s a possibility.”

Red Arrow stepped forward, jaw tight. “You’re deflecting.”

She tilted her head. “Or maybe I’m just playing your game.”

“You’re hiding something.”

“And you’re not?”

He glared at her. “You’re just scared someone’s going to start asking you questions.”

Nyx didn’t answer.

His gaze sharpened, predatory. “You’ve got a soft spot for someone here, don’t you?”

He glanced between them, his eyes locking purposefully on Robin.

“Which one?” he asked, voice low and taunting. “Come on. Which one are you trying to protect?”

The room fell deathly still.

Robin stood. Slowly. The movement was controlled, barely. “Back off, Roy.”

Red Arrow smiled, cruel and knowing. “That’s what I thought.”

Batman’s eyes narrowed. His gaze flicked between them, Nyx, Robin, assessing, parsing something beneath the surface. His silence said everything. Robin shifted to stand half in front of Nyx. Protective. Tense. Ready. The conversation had unravelled. The question of a mole hung unanswered, suspended like a sword above them. But something else had surfaced instead.

Tension. Emotion. A fault line forming just beneath their feet. And Nyx couldn’t tell which truth was more dangerous. The one they were trying to uncover.

Or the ones they’d already guessed.

Chapter Text

Mount Justice

October 31st – 20:47 EDT 

A thunderous thud split the hush of Mount Justice, sharp and sudden as a gunshot—startling in the stillness. A pillow hit the far wall with violent force, bursting slightly at the seam, feathers fluttering like startled birds before drifting to the floor in stunned silence.

Nyx stood at the heart of the lounge, her posture taut as a bowstring drawn to the breaking point. Her chest heaved in ragged breaths, each inhale scraping against the fire clawing up her throat. Her eyes, usually unreadable, guarded, now blazed. Fury scorched through them, unfiltered and incandescent. At her feet, her shadows writhed like living smoke, rising and falling in volatile pulses, too restless to settle, too raw to hide.

Robin and Kaldur lingered a few feet away, their stance quiet, measured. Neither dared step closer. Robin’s gloved hands hung loose at his sides, though his gaze never left her. Kaldur’s brow was drawn in concern, but he held himself steady, respecting the storm she was weathering, not daring to speak too soon.

"How dare he ask me that?!" Nyx’s voice cracked with the strain of it, fury laced with something deeper—hurt, betrayal, panic. She whirled and hurled another pillow like a grenade, her whole body behind the throw. It smashed against the corner of the wall with a hollow thunk and fell in a twisted heap near Kaldur’s feet.

“I’ll tell the team who I am when I’m ready!” she snarled. Her fingers curled, and her shadows obeyed, tendrils lashing out and coiling beneath the coffee table, lifting it with startling ease. A heartbeat later, the table flipped with a metallic crash, its contents, comics, mugs, and a half-eaten protein bar, exploding across the floor.

Robin took a careful step forward. “Nyx—”

“ What?! ” she spun on him, her voice a weapon, sharp enough to cut bone. Her shadows surged in response, towering behind her like obsidian wings, monstrous and jagged. For a heartbeat, the air thickened, electric with power.

Robin flinched—but not out of fear. Never fear. He knew she wouldn’t hurt him. Still, the sheer force radiating from her was staggering. Her power wasn’t just a weapon—it was emotion, stripped bare and burning.

Then their eyes locked. 

And in his gaze, steady, storm-blue, unwavering, she didn’t see fear. She didn’t see judgment, or pressure, or demands.

She saw him.

Robin, who waited at thresholds and never crossed them without permission. Robin, who never once asked for more than she could give. Who looked at her and saw her.

And just like that, the fury crumpled. Her shadows recoiled as if burned, collapsing around her like bruised silk, folding inward in shame. She swayed where she stood, eyes wide with the sudden collapse of everything she’d been holding together.

“I—I’m sorry,” she choked out. Her voice cracked down the middle, fragile and breaking. The tears came fast, traitorous, slipping down her cheeks as the rage drained out and devastation took its place.

Robin moved without hesitation. He crossed the space between them in two strides, arms encircling her before she could think to retreat. She folded into him like a house caving in, her head pressing against his shoulder, her hands clutching the fabric of his suit with trembling desperation. Her shoulders shook, sobs wracking through her like aftershocks from a quake.

Kaldur, ever perceptive, offered a quiet nod. His presence receded without a sound, as gentle and respectful as the tide pulling back from shore. He knew Robin’s arms would anchor her better than anything he could say.

Robin held her close, grounding her with every breath. One hand stroked slowly through her hair, the other wrapped firmly around her waist, keeping her tethered to now.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, his lips brushing her temple. “You’re okay.”

But she shook her head hard against him, the motion jagged. “No, Robin. It’s not. It’s not okay.”

She drew back only slightly, enough to look up at him. He didn’t let go. His hands shifted, sliding to her upper arms, thumbs brushing along her sleeves as though anchoring her to reality. Her tear-streaked face tilted upward, lips parted, eyes shining with something half-buried and aching. Words hovered just behind them, trembling on the edge of breath.

“I’m—” she began, the word barely more than a breath.

Robin stilled, as if the syllable had frozen time itself. His breath caught mid-inhale, suspended in his chest like a glass thread on the verge of shattering. His grip on her arms didn’t tighten, didn’t ease—just held her there, grounding her without restraint.

She felt it forming, that name, the truth of her, rising up her throat with the weight of a thousand locked doors breaking open.

Arabella.

It echoed in her head louder than her heartbeat. Louder than the chaos she’d just unleashed on the room. Louder than the fear gnawing at the edges of her every thought.

Arabella. Her name. Her burden. Her secret.

In the space between one heartbeat and the next, a hundred possibilities surged through her like a tidal wave—cold, sharp, unrelenting. The fallout of truth. The shrapnel of revelation.

She saw their faces in rapid flashes, like memories caught in a storm: M’gann’s soft, unwavering kindness turning uncertain, questioning. Kaldur’s quiet integrity fracturing into a silence too heavy to bear. Connor—glaring, betrayed, a wound carved open beneath his scowl. Wally, smiling too hard, pretending not to care until the joke fell flat and the silence stretched. And Robin—right here. Right now. So close she could feel the tension coiled in him, hear the faint hitch in his breath, the way his chest rose in anticipation.

Would he look at her the same, once he knew?

Once he realised that she wasn’t just hiding something—she was the secret. Not a mask worn in the field, but a life threaded with deception from the start. A girl born from a name that reeked of corruption and legacy, and power twisted into something monstrous.

Lex Luthor.

Even thinking it made her throat close. It tasted like rust and ruin. She had buried that truth deep under Batman’s training, under every mission and hard-earned ounce of trust, under shadows spun like armour. She had fought to become Nyx so she could silence the girl who once bore that name. That cursed, blood-stained legacy.

Would they see that effort, that distance she’d clawed out from under his shadow? Or would they only see the name she hadn’t spoken?

Would he?

Would Robin still hold her like this, steady and warm and real? Still look at her like she was more than her past, more than her father’s sins braided into her DNA? Or would he pull away? Would he build walls she’d never scale again, lock the door and throw away the key?

Would he stop trusting her?

The fear screamed at her to stay silent. To run. To disappear into her shadows and let the truth rot where it lay.

But he was still holding her. Not demanding. Not pleading. Just... waiting.

Waiting like he knew this moment mattered. Like he wasn’t afraid of the truth, only afraid she’d carry it alone.

And that broke something inside her. A piece of armour she hadn’t realised she was still wearing—splintered beneath his patience.

“I’m A—” she whispered, her lips parting around the first syllable. The name was perched on the edge of a cliff, ready to jump—

But then—

“Robin. Nyx.”

The voice cut through the moment like a scalpel. Deep. Commanding. Cold.

Batman.

Nyx froze, her whole body jolting like a live wire. Robin turned, his expression caught between frustration and dread.

Batman stood in the threshold of the lounge, his cape pooling around his boots like shadow. His eyes swept over the destruction: the overturned furniture, feathers still drifting in the air, the glint of tears on Nyx’s face. Robin’s arms were still half-wrapped around her. Her flushed cheeks. Her raw edges.

For one breath, the unshakeable Dark Knight looked... surprised. Then, as always, his mask slid back into place.

“I do not know what is going on between the two of you,” he said, voice calm but deliberate. “But whatever it is, make the right choices. And try to remain... level-headed.”

With that, he turned and walked away, the cape swaying like final punctuation. No questions. No accusations. No room for argument.

Silence swallowed the room in his wake.

Nyx eased back from Robin, the movement slow and reluctant, like a tide retreating from the shore. Her hand drifted from his chest, fingers folding into her palm as if trying to hold onto something already slipping away. Her breaths came shallow at first, then gradually steadied—less ragged, more composed.

She knew what she’d almost said. What she’d nearly laid bare.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last, voice barely audible. Not for the chaos. Not for the near-confession.

For the weight she’d placed in his hands.

Robin reached up and brushed a tear from her cheek with the back of his hand, a gesture so gentle it nearly undid her again.

“You don’t have to explain,” he murmured. His voice was low, but steady. “Not yet.”

His eyes held hers—soft, serious, unwavering.

“When you’re ready.”

She gave a small nod. Just one. Lips trembling, pressed tight to keep more tears from spilling over. He didn’t say anything else. But she felt it—heavy and unsaid in the space between them:

Would she ever be ready?

Maybe. Maybe not. But for now, she hadn’t run.

And he hadn’t let her fall.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

A soft knock echoed against the door, muffled by the walls yet impossibly loud in the quiet ache of her room.

Nyx didn’t stir. She lay motionless beneath the blanket, a shadow among shadows, curled tightly as if bracing against the weight of her own existence. The dim glow from her lamp cast long, trembling silhouettes across the floor, but even they seemed too weary to move. Her eyes, dry and burning, fixed blankly on the ceiling, unseeing. Unfeeling. Caught somewhere between now and the spiralling fragments of everything that had just unfolded.

Red Arrow’s voice, sharp as a blade. Robin’s eyes, filled with worry and confusion. The look on Batman’s face as she crumbled before him, after years of somewhat composure.

She had broken. And now, she didn’t know how to gather the pieces again. 

The knock came again. Softer this time. Not insistent—just… waiting. 

Nyx swallowed against the dryness in her throat, forcing the word out. “Come in,” she rasped, a brittle thing barely held together.

The door creaked open. Artemis stepped inside, stripped of her costume, wearing soft leggings and an oversized jumper that hung off one shoulder, sleeves bunched at her wrists. In her hands, a tray: two steaming mugs, a mess of biscuits, chips, and candy from the Halloween bowl Wally so valiantly guarded.

“I heard,” Artemis said quietly, nudging the door shut behind her. “Robin told me what happened. Not all of it. Just the crying. I thought… maybe you shouldn’t be alone.”

She didn’t wait for permission. Didn’t ask with words or hesitation. Artemis simply crossed the threshold and glided across the room with a quiet, unshakable calm, her movements smooth and certain, as if she'd done this before. As if she knew how to be a refuge when the world turned too sharp.

She sank onto the edge of the bed without a sound, the mattress dipping gently beneath her weight. She didn’t speak. Didn’t reach out. Didn’t fill the air with questions or pity. She just was, a silent, steady presence radiating warmth and patience in the dim half-light of the room. The kind of presence that didn’t demand anything. That made the silence feel less like suffocation and more like shelter.

And for the first time in what felt like hours, Nyx’s lungs unlocked. Not all the way. Not completely. But enough.

Enough to breathe.

She moved like someone surfacing from a deep, crushing depth—slow, disoriented, fragile. Her blanket slipped away from her shoulders as she sat up, pooling in her lap like the remnants of armour she no longer had the strength to wear. Her hair, long and dark and snarled from sleep and sweat and too many haunted thoughts, fell in a messy curtain over one shoulder. And still, the sunglasses remained—a black veil clinging to her face. Her last line of defence. Her final mask.

The one thing she hadn’t dared to let go of. Not even when her secrets had scraped raw against the back of her throat, begging for air.

Her hands, slender, shaking, curled tightly into the hem of the blanket, as if grounding herself in the tangible might keep her from shattering.

“Artemis…” Her voice was a rasp, brittle and breaking beneath the weight of what she was trying to hold back. “Can I—can I tell you something?”

Artemis didn’t so much as blink. Her posture didn’t shift. Her eyes didn’t sharpen with suspicion or widen with surprise. She only nodded, quiet, firm, unflinching.

“Of course.”

And it was that-— that look in her eyes— that nearly undid her. Because there was no shock, no bracing, no bristling. Just a stillness. A knowing. Like Artemis had already glimpsed the storm behind the mask and decided not to turn away. Like she could already feel the shape of the truth pressing at the edges, even if she didn’t yet know its name.

No fear. No judgement. Just space. Just room.

And in that moment, wrapped in dim light and silence and shadows that felt less like chains and more like cover… Nyx realised she wasn’t just ready to speak.

She needed to. 

Nyx opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Her chest seized with a breath she couldn’t quite take.

The fear came back all at once, sharp, suffocating, cold as ice water in her veins. It gripped her by the throat and curled around her heart like a fist, squeezing. She could see it play out before it even happened, could feel the phantom of rejection take shape in the silence between them.

Artemis’s face, once open and calm, twisting into something unreadable. Guarded. Distant. Maybe even disgusted.

Maybe she’d stand up. Maybe she’d step away. Put space between them, the way people always did when they realised what she was. Who she was.

Maybe she'd say the words Arabella had dreaded hearing her whole life—the ones that could shatter this fragile thing between them with a single breath.

But then— then —she remembered what Artemis had said, knees bruised and arrows spent, standing beside her like they were carved from the same fight. She remembered Artemis flinging herself between Nyx and danger, with no hesitation. The way she’d said, blunt and unapologetic, “I don’t trust you fully. But I get you.”

She remembered the lunch breaks at Gotham Academy, the quiet, sarcastic grins passed across the table, the look Artemis gave her when the others weren’t watching—familiar, wary, but real.

They were friends.

And maybe, just maybe, that still meant something. Maybe it meant everything.

Her fingers trembled as she lifted her hand to her face. The sunglasses were cold between her fingertips, the last piece of armour she'd clung to through everything. She hesitated.

Then, slowly, deliberately, she pulled them off. The air hit her face like a jolt. Like standing naked beneath a storm. And when she looked up, really looked, her eyes met Artemis’s.

Unmasked. Unhidden. Unguarded.

She saw the exact moment it hit. Artemis’s brow knitted, confusion flickering across her face, but then her breath caught mid-inhale. Her lips parted, stunned and soundless. Her eyes widened, and everything about her went still. Recognition didn’t arrive gently. It hit her like a blow—sudden, shattering, undeniable. A truth dropped squarely into her lap with the kind of weight that left no room for denial or retreat.

Her voice came out barely a whisper, cracked around the edges. “You’re…” She blinked once, then again. 

Arabella Luthor.

Nyx—Arabella—nodded. Just once. Sharp and deliberate. Like pulling the pin on a grenade and waiting for the fallout. The silence swelled between them, dense and thrumming with tension. The kind of silence that could break a person if it lasted too long.

Artemis looked at her for one impossible heartbeat. And then she reached forward and pulled Arabella into her arms. No flinching. No questions. No hesitation. Just arms, strong, steady, certain, wrapping around her like a lifeline thrown into the eye of a hurricane.

Arabella froze. The hug landed like a shock to the system—like someone had thrown open a door she hadn’t realised she’d locked from the inside. A door she thought no one would ever try to open. Her throat clenched. Her body, tense from weeks, months of holding everything in, gave out all at once.

She didn’t expect the tears. But they came anyway.

At first, just heat behind her eyes. Then the first drop fell, traitorous and quiet. Then another. And another. Until she was sobbing, silently, violently, her body wracked with the force of it, each breath catching like broken glass in her chest.

Artemis didn’t let go. If anything, she held her tighter.

Arabella clung to her like a child lost in a storm, her fingers digging into the fabric of Artemis’s jumper, knuckles white. She shook from the inside out, as if every guarded part of her had finally cracked and let the floodwaters in.

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t neat. It was raw. Messy. Real.

“You’re safe,” Artemis whispered, voice thick with emotion, her hand stroking Arabella’s hair in slow, soothing passes. “I won’t tell anyone. I swear.”

The words hit like balm and blade all at once.

Arabella’s chest heaved. She couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.
The fear, the shame, the loneliness she had carried like chains, like armour too heavy to shed—poured out of her all at once, thick and choking. It spilt from her like black ink from a shattered bottle, staining the space between them with everything she had tried so hard to keep buried.

For so long, she had lived behind walls, behind shadows and masks, convincing herself she didn’t need to be known, didn’t want to be understood. And now—now the words were out, and the earth hadn't split open to swallow her whole. Artemis hadn’t recoiled. Hadn’t turned away. Something inside Arabella, something ancient and aching, cracked open under the weight of it.

The relief hit her harder than the fear ever had. It wasn’t gentle; it was raw and overwhelming, a tidal wave surging through the hollow spaces inside her. She pressed a trembling hand against her chest like she could hold herself together, but it was useless—the breaking had already begun.

Her eyes stung with unshed tears. Her breath hitched in her throat. And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Arabella wasn’t drowning alone. She was seen. She was known.

“My father is Sportsmaster,” Artemis said quietly, her voice steady, but laced with something old and aching. “And my sister… is Cheshire.”

Arabella stilled.

The breath caught sharply in her throat. She pulled back, just enough to look Artemis in the eye, blinking past the tears.

“Your—?” Her voice cracked like thin ice.

Artemis nodded, solemn and sure. “That’s why I understand. The fear. The hiding. The weight of knowing who raised you, and who you refuse to become. Every choice you make… feeling like you’re fighting ghosts.”

The words crashed into her like a tidal wave, impossible to stop, impossible to ignore.

Because Artemis did understand.

She knew what it was to carry a name like a curse. To live in the long, dark shadow of someone else’s crimes and still try to walk toward the light. To wake up every morning and wonder, what if I’m just like them?

Two daughters. Forged in darkness, shaped by the relentless weight of their fathers’ expectations. Moulded into weapons before they were ever allowed to be children, taught that strength was survival and tenderness was weakness. That to be vulnerable was to invite ruin. Now, they were trying to unlearn the instincts of survival and find a way to live beyond the scars.

They had worn their pain like second skins for so long they had almost forgotten what it felt like to breathe without armour. But here—now—they were trying. Trying to unlearn the instincts that had kept them alive. Trying to believe that survival wasn’t the only future waiting for them. That beyond the scars, beyond the bruised memories and broken promises, there could be something more.

Arabella reached out and found Artemis’s hand. Cold fingers touched warm ones. Artemis didn’t hesitate. She squeezed, firm, grounding, real.

“I thought I was alone,” Arabella whispered. Her voice was ragged and trembling and small in a way she hated, but for once, she didn’t care.

“You never were,” Artemis said, sure as a vow.

And this time, finally, finally, Arabella believed her.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

“I take it the girls don’t know?” Artemis asked carefully, her voice low, calm now. The emotions from earlier had faded, leaving only quiet conversation between the two girls seated cross-legged on Arabella’s bed. “Charlotte, Anne-Marie, Fred… Dick?”

Arabella shook her head. “No. And they can’t. Not ever.”

“And I’m guessing your dad—Lex—he doesn’t know either?” Artemis ventured.

Arabella’s face stiffened slightly. “No. And I don’t even want to imagine what he’d do to me if he ever found out… that the experiments worked.”

Artemis’s eyes widened. “Experiments?” she repeated, stunned. “Wait—how young were you?”

“I was four.” Arabella’s voice dropped to a whisper, but her words carried weight. “He said he had done it to save me. He said I was weak and sick all the time. But he didn’t tell me exactly what he’d done—he just told me I’d recovered naturally. Until one day, after my fifth birthday, the shadows started responding to me. Following me. And then…” She closed her eyes for a moment as if the memory itself hurt. “I dissolved. Dissolved into darkness. I didn’t know where I was. I ended up in some alleyway—alone, confused, and terrified. These men tried to grab me. I couldn’t control what happened. The shadows… they lashed out. Killed them.”

Artemis sat frozen, horrified but silent.

“Batman found me minutes later. He saw what I’d done and didn’t run. He didn’t even flinch. He just knelt down, took my hand, and said, ‘You’re not a monster.’” Arabella looked down at her mug. “He brought me in. Told me the truth. What Lex had actually done. That he was experimenting on me. Who he is. He basically raised me. Trained me. Protected me. Batman’s the only reason I’m not… him.”

Artemis swallowed hard, taking it all in. “That’s… that’s a lot.”

Arabella gave her a sad smile. “You asked.”

“I did.” Artemis nodded. She took a breath. “Well… I guess it’s my turn, isn’t it?”

Arabella looked up. “You don’t have to—”

“No, I want to.” Artemis sipped her tea. “My dad hasn’t exactly been in my life full time, but when he was, he made sure I knew how to shoot, how to fight, how to survive. My sister, Jade, became Cheshire. We fought her.”

Arabella nodded.

“I live with my mum when I’m not at the Cave. She’s the ex-con Huntress. And yeah, my whole family has been steeped in that life. The criminal underworld. I didn’t want any part of it. So I ran away from it all. Tried to start over. That’s when Green Arrow took me in. Well, that’s when he started training me.”

“I get it,” Arabella murmured. “Wanting to rewrite the story written for you.”

A moment passed between them.

“Does… does Robin know?” Artemis asked hesitantly.

Arabella let out a bitter laugh. “God, no. I almost told him. Earlier, when I was breaking down after that stupid meeting. I wanted to say it. I nearly did. But I couldn’t.” She wrapped her arms around her knees. “I don’t know how he’d react. I don’t want to find out.”

“Honestly,” Artemis began slowly, “I’m still wrapping my head around the fact we’ve been going to school together this whole time, and you never said a word.”

Arabella chuckled softly. “Sorry about that.”

“But wait—what about Dick?”

“What about him?” Arabella asked innocently.

“Oh, don’t play coy.” Artemis grinned. “The flirting? The comments? The smirking across the quad and table?”

“That’s just friendly banter!” Arabella said quickly. “We’ve always been like that. Nothing serious.”

“And Robin?” Artemis wiggled her eyebrows.

Arabella hesitated, then sighed. “It’s… different. I feel different with him. But I don’t know what it is. I don’t even know if he knows what it is.”

“Complicated then.” Artemis nodded sagely. “Got it.”

“We kissed again.” Arabella winced as the words left her mouth.

Artemis’s eyes bulged. “You what? When?”

“After you guys left,” Arabella admitted, covering her face with both hands. “In his room.”

“ What?! ” Artemis gasped even louder. “In his room?! What were you doing in his room?!”

Arabella groaned. “We were bonding! Over literature!”

Artemis fell back onto the bed dramatically. “Of course you were. That is so you.”

“I didn’t plan it! It just… happened. We were talking about Shakespeare and Brontë, and then I quoted Wuthering Heights, and he quoted Hamlet, and—” Arabella trailed off, touching the gold star pendant resting between her collarbones.

Artemis sat up sharply. “Wait, wait. When you guys kissed after the simulation… was that your first kiss?”

Arabella let out a low groan. “Dick was my first kiss.”

“Arabella!” Artemis squealed. “That’s insane! And you’re absolutely positive nothing is going on between you and Dick?!”

“We were nine!” Arabella cried. “It was just a peck. We were curious and close, and it felt safe. It didn’t mean anything!”

“And you’ve done nothing more with Robin?” Artemis’s tone was edging into scandalous territory.

“Oh my God, Artemis! No!” Arabella wanted to bury herself under the duvet. “I’m fourteen! ”

“Well, someone’s got to give you the talk! ‘Cause I know damn well Lex Luthor and Batman aren’t going to sit you down and explain protection!” Artemis cackled with laughter.

Arabella threw a cushion at her. “Kill me now.”

“Hey, I just want to make sure you’re safe! Hormones are a real thing! Robin’s a teenage boy with emotional trauma and a mask complex. That’s a dangerous combination!”

Arabella joined her in laughter, breathless. “We talked. We said we’d wait until we figured things out. We’re taking it slow. Whatever this is… we’re not rushing it.”

“Good,” Artemis said seriously. “Because the last thing we need is a mini Robin running around the Cave throwing batarangs at Wally’s head.”

“ Ew !” Arabella shrieked.

“Just saying,” Artemis smirked. “You’re entering the teenage hormone battlefield now, babe. And you’re fighting it with two identities .”

Arabella laughed again, breath catching as it softened into something quieter. “Thanks, Artemis. For all of this.”

Artemis smiled and reached over, squeezing her hand. “Always. I’ve got your back, Arabella. Or Nyx. Or whoever you decide to be that day.”

Arabella smiled through the lingering weight in her chest. For the first time since Batman, it didn’t feel like she was carrying this secret alone. 

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Mount Justice

November 1st – 06:03 EDT

The soft morning hum of Mount Justice was broken only by the gentle sizzle of eggs and bacon crackling in the pan—an earthy, comforting sound that echoed through the quiet halls like a lullaby in reverse, stirring the sleepy silence to life.

In the kitchen, bathed in golden early light filtering through the tall windows, Nyx stood at the counter like the eye of a calm storm. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail, sleek and practical, revealing the sharp angles of her cheekbones. She wore her usual training gear—obsidian-black leggings that clung like a second skin, and a minimalist sports bra that gleamed faintly with sweat-wicking fabric. Her trademark sunglasses were perched on her nose, an ever-present shield even this early, even here in the sanctuary of home.

But it wasn’t just her hands that moved.

Shadows curled around her like loyal pets, silent and obedient. One set flipped bacon with effortless grace, while another stirred eggs in a pan that levitated midair, the wooden spoon turning in slow, precise arcs. Nyx, meanwhile, sliced strawberries and kiwis with almost ceremonial delicacy. Her knife moved in smooth, confident strokes, each cut the product of ritual and routine, morning muscle memory in motion.

Across the island, Robin leaned against the counter, dressed in a charcoal tank top that clung to his chest and shoulders, sweatpants riding low on his hips. The morning sun lit the edges of him in gold, softening the sharpness of his usual presence. He was whipping cream in a glass bowl, muscles flexing with each rhythmic motion, the light chime of metal whisk against ceramic filling the space between their quiet conversation.

Without warning, he dipped a finger into the pillowy peaks of cream and reached out, dabbing a small smear onto the tip of Nyx’s nose.

“Hey!” she giggled, nose scrunching in mock indignation. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her, already tilting into a grin.

Robin laughed under his breath, eyes warm behind his own opaque lenses. He set the bowl aside and rounded the counter, his footsteps soft against the polished floor. He stepped behind her, hands gently resting on her waist, light at first, like a question.

Nyx froze mid-slice, the blade still resting on a piece of strawberry. Her eyes flicked to the side, catching his silhouette over her shoulder.

“And what exactly do you think you’re doing?” she asked, arching a brow, though a smirk tugged at her lips.

“I just want to hold you for a minute,” Robin murmured, quieter now. There was no teasing in his voice—just raw honesty, stripped of bravado. “That’s okay, right?”

His grip firmed slightly, not possessive, but grounding like he wasn’t sure if she’d disappear.

Nyx turned to face him fully, knife set aside, strawberry forgotten. Her gaze flicked down, taking him in properly now, without the barrier of mission gear or casual sarcasm. He was leaner than he looked, but defined. Strong. She smiled, soft and slow, and leaned in. Their lips met with a kiss that was both a question and an answer, lingering, thoughtful.

“Yeah,” she whispered against his mouth, the words curling into a smile.

They kissed again, deeper this time. His hand came up to cradle her jaw, fingers splayed beneath her ear, thumb tracing the line of her cheek. Her fingers threaded into his hair, tugging lightly. The kiss melted into laughter, breathless and bright, their foreheads resting together in the afterglow of the moment.

“You’re not going to tell me we shouldn’t have done that?” Nyx teased, half-laughing, her voice still breathy with amusement.

Robin shook his head slowly. “Wouldn’t dream of it. And besides, you said it first,” he said, brushing his thumb over her cheekbone.

She tilted her head toward the shadows—her tell, subtle but unmistakable. Before Robin could realise, a curl of darkness slithered up from behind him and, with perfect aim, smeared a dollop of whipped cream across his nose.

He blinked, stunned. “Oh, you’re in for it now.”

Nyx was already gone—melting into a swirl of dark smoke, only to reappear behind him in a flicker of shadows and silk. He spun on instinct, lunging toward her with a laugh, and the chase was on. Cream flew, shadows darted, and giggles ricocheted off the sleek walls of the kitchen. He caught her from behind, lifting her off the ground with ease and spinning her in wide circles as she shrieked with laughter, arms flailing.

The kitchen door slid open with a whoosh.

“Morning, guys,” Zatanna called out, stopping just a step into the room. Her voice was bright with residual joy from the night before. She was still in pyjamas—a slouchy jumper falling off one shoulder and soft shorts—her dark hair unbrushed but radiant, cheeks flushed.

Robin set Nyx down like they’d been caught mid-dance, both of them fumbling to swipe at their faces, trying to hide evidence of their flour-and-cream war. Nyx’s shadows, sheepish now, slunk away like children after being scolded.

“Morning, Zatanna,” Nyx greeted, still breathless. “Do you want some breakfast? We’ve made some.”

“You two cooked all this?” Zatanna asked, surveying the pancakes, eggs, fruit, and bacon with wide eyes. “Looks incredible.”

“You stayed the night?” Robin asked casually.

“Mm-hmm,” Zatanna murmured, tucking a dark strand of hair behind her ear with casual grace. The morning light caught the gloss in her hair and the lingering shimmer of last night’s glamour on her skin. She leaned against the counter, barefoot and loose-limbed, her posture unbothered despite the early hour. “Zatara thought it was best we crash here after getting back so late.”

She flashed a grin, her eyes playful as they landed on Robin. “And yes, I’d love some pancakes.”

Nyx moved to plate the food, shadows shifting obediently around her, levitating the pans while she flicked her wrist to slide fluffy pancakes onto warmed plates. Her movements were smooth, mechanical—almost too precise. Robin leaned against the island, saying nothing, but Nyx didn’t miss the way Zatanna's gaze wandered. There was something speculative in it, sharp behind the softness.

“I stayed in Artemis’s room,” Zatanna offered, plucking a strawberry from the bowl and rolling it between her fingers before popping it into her mouth. “But I wouldn’t have minded a different room…”

Robin arched a brow, half amused, half calculating.

Nyx didn’t look up, but her jaw tensed subtly, the knife she’d just used to slice fruit settling on the cutting board with a delicate clink. Her hands moved to arrange the rest of the breakfast as if nothing had changed, but the curve of her mouth had flattened just enough to say otherwise.

“I don’t let just anyone into my room,” Robin replied smoothly, voice low and casual. There was a lazy sort of steel to his tone, a warning tucked behind the charm. His eyes flicked from Zatanna’s face to Nyx’s back, lingering there for a beat.

Zatanna’s smile sharpened, intrigued. “So, who has been inside, then?”

“Wally,” Robin said easily, “and Nyx.”

Nyx glanced up at the sound of her name, lashes flicking behind her sunglasses. Her face betrayed nothing, but her fingers moved just a little more carefully as she placed Zatanna’s plate down in front of her—every motion practised, precise.

“I’m guessing you two are pretty close, then?” Zatanna said, sitting down with a bright, interested grin. She speared a piece of fruit with her fork, tone innocent but eyes glinting. “Best friends?”

“The best,” Robin answered instantly, grinning widely as he slung an arm around Nyx’s shoulder in a move that was both casual and territorial. Nyx gave him a dry look and elbowed him lightly in the ribs, a sharp jab that made him wince and laugh all at once. Her heart, however, was less cooperative, fluttering like it had a mind of its own.

“We’re heading to the training room to spar,” Nyx said, brushing him off with a flick of her hand and moving to sit with her own plate. “You’re welcome to join us.”

Zatanna leaned back in her chair with a theatrical little sigh. “I’d love to. It'll be my first proper sparring session with the team.” Her smile widened as she picked up her fork. “Hopefully, I don’t embarrass myself too much.”

“You’ll be brilliant,” Nyx assured her. “We don’t use powers when we spar. It’s mostly about reflex and form. We save the powers for our one-on-ones with Canary.”

Zatanna took a bite of pancake and practically melted. “Oh my god, this is amazing!”

“Secret Bat recipe,” Robin said with pretend seriousness, lowering his voice as though revealing classified intel.

Nyx rolled her eyes. “It’s M’gann’s recipe.”

Robin grinned. “Improved by yours truly.”

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Nyx asked, gesturing to the empty space at the table.

“I’ll eat after,” he said, rising to his feet. “Need to be light if I’m going to win against you today.”

“You never win,” Nyx shot back with a smirk.

“I will today. Just you wait.”

Zatanna watched them banter, a smile tugging at her lips. But beneath that smile was a curious glint. Something unspoken lingered in the air between Nyx and Robin—an ease, a closeness, a tension too subtle to name but too strong to ignore.

And for now, neither of them was ready to explain it.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The sparring room thrummed with quiet energy—the low hum of overhead lights, the distant whir of ventilation, and the rhythmic padding of bare feet on thick mats. Soft halos of light spilt over the training floor, casting the trio in crisp relief as they entered: Nyx, Robin, and Zatanna, all in their respective training gear.

Zatanna wore a fitted, sleeveless charcoal top and deep violet leggings that shimmered slightly with movement. Her hair was pulled into a loose braid that swung down her back, a few wisps escaping to frame her face. Her eyes were wide, scanning the space with a mix of wonder and nerves, though she held her shoulders high, like a performer about to step on stage.

Nyx led them across the room with an easy, predatory grace, her boots silent on the mat before she peeled them off, standing barefoot in black athletic wear that seemed stitched from shadow itself. Her sports bra left lean muscle and faded bruises on display, and her high ponytail was sharp and severe. She stretched her arms behind her back, the motion fluid, spine arching slightly as her shadow pooled behind her like a living thing.

“Right,” she said with a grin that hinted at danger. “Let’s take turns. Robin and I will go first.”

Robin nodded, stepping onto the mat beside her, shedding his gloves as they began to circle each other, tension snapping into place like a coiled spring. They were barefoot, silent save for the soft whisper of movement. Two predators sizing one another up. Mirrors in different shades of danger.

"Are you ready to lose with at least a shred of dignity this time?" Robin asked, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. His voice was playful, but the glint in his eyes was anything but.

Nyx raised a brow, sunglasses still on despite the indoor setting, the lenses catching the overhead light like obsidian glass. “I could beat you blindfolded, and you know it.”

"Oh, I know you believe that."

“Careful, Boy Wonder. Confidence that cocky usually comes before a fall.”

Robin grinned. “We’ll see.”

[Training Match: Nyx vs Robin. Begin.]

Their fight detonated into motion—a blur of limbs and breath and controlled chaos. Robin darted forward, feinting right, his speed a deceptive blur. Nyx blocked with the sharp edge of her forearm, meeting his advance with a fluid turn and sweeping leg. He vaulted over it, twisting in midair, and landed just behind her with an annoyingly smug smirk curling at his lips.

“You’ve been practising,” she said, breathless and amused, pivoting toward him again.

“Well, someone has to keep up with you.”

She surged forward. A flurry of strikes, knees, elbows, and quick jabs forced him into a measured retreat. He deflected most with precise form, but one clipped his jaw. His head snapped to the side, a flush of colour blooming across his cheek.

"You hit me," he said, incredulous but not angry.

"You flirted first," she replied with a smirk.

He ducked her next kick, rolling beneath her and catching her from behind in a clean grappling hold. “Is this how you show affection?”

She twisted, driving an elbow into his ribs with just enough force to make him grunt. He loosened his grip. She spun, swept his legs out from under him—but he caught her ankle mid-motion, and they both toppled.

They landed with a muted thud, Nyx pinning him, knees braced on either side of his hips. They were panting, still, their faces close enough to feel the other’s breath.

“You should’ve focused,” she murmured, her voice low and edged in mischief.

Robin blinked up at her, caught somewhere between dazed and impressed. “Was this your plan all along?”

Nyx leaned in slightly, lips brushing close to his ear. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

The match was hers.

She rolled off him in one fluid motion, landing in a crouch before standing and stretching lazily. Robin stayed on the mat a second longer, staring at the ceiling with a groan of defeat.

“What did I just walk in on?” Wally’s voice cut through the tension, loud and unmistakably amused.

Robin sighed. “Perfect timing.”

Wally stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrows raised beneath messy red hair, his usual cocky grin fully in place. “Tell me this is some new team-building initiative. Because if not—hot damn.”

Nyx tossed a towel over her shoulder, smirking. “You missed all the fun.”

“Clearly.” Wally’s eyes bounced between the two of them. “That looked suspiciously like losing, Rob.”

“I was caught off guard.”

“Caught off guard?” Wally gasped, mock-horrified. “Or caught up in your feelings? Oh my God, is that whipped cream on your collarbone? Is this what I missed this morning?”

Robin hurled a glove at him.

Wally ducked. “I’m just saying—if sparring turns into flirting again, give me a heads up. I’ll sell tickets.”

Nyx was already heading for the bench, expression unreadable. “Only if you agree to wear a referee shirt... and a blindfold.”

Robin snorted.

Wally paused. “Wait. Why a blindfold?”

Robin didn’t answer. He just followed Nyx with a grin tugging at his mouth.

From the sidelines, Zatanna raised a brow. “Do you two always spar like that?”

Nyx laughed, a towel around her neck. “Only when he forgets how to block properly.”

“Excuse you,” Robin said, rolling his neck. “I was blocking—until someone weaponised sarcasm.”

Nyx turned toward Zatanna. “You ready?”

Zatanna nodded and stepped onto the mat. She squared up with a determined breath. Nyx offered her a small, encouraging smile.

“No powers,” she said. “Just reflexes.”

[Training Match: Nyx vs Zatanna. Begin.]

Zatanna moved first, quick on her feet, striking with surprising agility. Nyx watched, blocking with smooth, controlled movements, letting the rhythm settle between them. She tested Zatanna’s instincts, feinted, shifted, and adjusted.

A few strikes passed close, close enough to feel the air shift, but Nyx was always just ahead. Then, with a pivot and a sweep of her arm, she caught Zatanna’s wrist and flipped her to the mat.

“Not bad,” Nyx said, offering her a hand. “You’ve got natural rhythm. We just need to polish your defence.”

Zatanna huffed a breath, cheeks pink. “I’ll get there.”

[Training Match: Robin vs Zatanna. Begin.]

Robin moved in like a chess master—deliberate, calculating. He didn’t go easy. He never did. But he didn’t overpower either—his strikes were measured, testing, teaching.

Zatanna ducked low, trying to sweep his legs. He dodged, used her momentum against her, and sent her flipping onto her back.

“You alright?” he asked, crouching beside her, concern softening his expression.

Zatanna let out a breathless laugh. “I think I bruised my pride more than anything.”

Wally tossed her a water bottle. “Don’t stress it. You just took on the second and third-best fighters on the team back-to-back. That’s, like, boss level without cheat codes.”

Zatanna groaned into her towel. “Good to know.”

“You held your own,” Wally said brightly. “That’s what counts. And let’s be honest, it’s only a matter of time before you outrank Robin. He’s slipping.”

“ Rude, ” Robin muttered, throwing his towel at Wally.

“It’s true, ” Nyx added with a smirk.

Zatanna laughed, still catching her breath, but her shoulders had relaxed, her eyes alight with adrenaline and pride.

For a first sparring session, it was better than she’d expected.

And for Robin and Nyx… it had been anything but just another match.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The sparring session had finally wound down, the crackle of adrenaline dissipating like static after a storm. The training room, once alive with motion and breathless focus, had settled into a quiet hum, just the low buzz of the overhead lights and the faint echo of distant footsteps. Robin and Wally had wandered off together, murmuring about needing to “talk,” though Nyx suspected it would devolve into snark and snacks before any real conversation took place.

That left her alone with Zatanna.

The mats still bore the scuff marks of their earlier sparring, and the faint smell of sweat clung to the air—effort, exertion, and something almost intimate in the stillness after combat. Nyx had slung a towel over one shoulder, pressing the edge against the back of her neck. Her breath was still evening out, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm as she reached for her water bottle. The cool liquid was halfway down her throat when the sound of soft, deliberate footsteps made her glance up.

“Hey,” came Zatanna’s voice—quiet, but not hesitant.

Nyx blinked, caught off guard. “Oh. Hey. Everything alright?”

Zatanna gave a small smile, tucking a loose braid behind one ear, her fingers fidgeting with the end of it. “Yeah, all good. I just… wanted to ask you something. If that’s okay.”

Nyx’s brow lifted slightly, the cautious part of her sharpening to attention. “Go on.”

Zatanna hesitated, her gaze flicking toward the doorway Robin and Wally had disappeared through, then back to Nyx. “Is there… something going on between you and Robin?”

Nyx choked on her water with a splutter, quickly turning her head away to cough, wiping her mouth with the edge of her towel. “I—sorry, what?”

Zatanna’s smile deepened, amused but kind. “You didn’t really hide it. During the match. The way you two moved—” she gestured vaguely with her hand, “—it wasn’t just sparring. It was like watching a dance. Charged. Intense. Flirty as hell.”

Nyx flushed, the colour high on her cheeks, and looked down as if the towel might offer cover. “Was it that obvious?”

“I don’t know how I missed it before,” Zatanna admitted with a quiet laugh. “The way you two banter, the way you watch each other when you think no one’s looking… You’ve got gravity between you. Like you pull each other in without even trying.”

Nyx bit her lower lip, unsure of what to say. The weight of what wasn’t spoken pressed between them—how much of her to reveal, how much she still didn’t know herself. Finally, she exhaled. “It’s… complicated.”

Zatanna nodded slowly. “Figured as much.” Her voice softened. “I just wanted to say—I didn’t mean to cross any boundaries. I hadn’t realised something was going on. I was just having fun earlier. I wouldn’t have flirted if I’d known.”

That honesty caught Nyx off guard more than the question had. She blinked, then offered a faint smile. “It’s okay. Really. You weren’t doing anything wrong. We’re not… official. We haven’t even figured out what we are. I think we’re making it up as we go.”

Zatanna’s expression gentled into something warm. “That actually sounds kind of nice. Messy, but nice.”

Nyx gave a quiet laugh. “Thanks. Honestly? I hope you end up joining the team. You’d be a great fit.”

Zatanna tilted her head playfully. “Only if my dad doesn’t keep grounding me from magical field trips. The man treats me like I’m still twelve. It takes him days just to approve a visit.”

“I know the type,” Nyx said dryly, thinking of Batman—and someone darker, colder still.

Zatanna made her way toward the door but paused before stepping through. “See you soon, hopefully.”

“Yeah.” Nyx leaned against the bench, watching her go. “Bye, Zatanna.”

The door clicked shut behind her, and the silence returned like a wave.

Nyx let herself fall back onto the mat, arms spread, the towel cushioning her head. She stared up at the ceiling, feeling the ghost of Robin’s touch still lingering in her limbs, the rush of the match lingering in her pulse.

Complicated, she thought with a dry breath. 

Didn’t even begin to cover it.

Chapter Text

Mount Justice

November 1st – 10:20 EDT 

The team had slept in deeply and deservedly. The aftermath of the Halloween dance had left them tangled in leftover costume glitter and lingering adrenaline. Some hadn’t stumbled back to the Cave until the early hours; others had collapsed in their rooms, shoes kicked off mid-step, half their makeup still smeared across pillows. When they finally began to emerge, blinking against the late-morning light, hair tousled in every direction, yawns practically seismic, it was nearly noon.

Artemis padded barefoot into the kitchen first, her hoodie hanging off one shoulder and sleep still soft in her eyes. She paused mid-step, brow arching as her gaze landed on the spread laid out before her.

“What’s all this?” she asked, voice still gravelled with sleep, gesturing vaguely toward the counter.

It looked like a brunch scene from a glossy food magazine: stacks of golden pancakes crowned with melting pats of butter, bowls brimming with strawberries, blueberries, and sliced melon. Whipped cream stood proud in a glass dish, flanked by a warm tray of scrambled eggs, glistening bacon strips, and a small mountain of perfectly crisp toast. The air was thick with the inviting scents of maple syrup, cinnamon, and just a hint of vanilla.

Wally wandered in behind her, stretching with a full-body groan and a yawn that seemed to rattle his ribs. He stopped short at the sight of the feast, then grinned. “Oh, this?” he said, cocking a thumb toward the counter. “Courtesy of our youngest dynamic duo—Robin and Nyx. Adorable, right? Little domestic darlings, whipping up breakfast like it’s Sunday morning in suburbia.”

He snorted, clearly entertained by the thought.

“Are you serious?” M’gann hovered in from the hallway, hair still mussed from sleep, her expression lighting up. “This looks amazing!” She practically sparkled with joy as she grabbed a plate mid-air. “Connor, come look!”

At the sink, Nyx turned around, water still dripping from her fingers. Her damp hair clung in inky tendrils to her collarbone. She offered a half-shy, half-proud smile. “Glad you like it.”

“So…” she began casually, drying her hands with a flick of the towel, “how was the dance?”

Wally, already two pancakes deep, snorted through a mouthful. “Hilarious. Artemis got hit on by a guy named Marvin—remember him? He pulled some prank about Martians invading. You should’ve seen M’gann’s face—priceless.”

“Wally,” Artemis warned, glaring at him as she piled her plate with eggs.

“Right, sorry,” he mumbled through a grin, not looking sorry at all.

M’gann flushed a gentle pink, though she was smiling too. “It wasn’t that bad…”

“You almost dropped the punch bowl,” Wally added with glee.

Artemis rolled her eyes and, in a bid to change the subject, turned to M’gann. “Anyway… you asked me yesterday why I hadn’t been at school all week.”

“Oh, right!” M’gann perked up, her plate momentarily forgotten. “You said you were taking time off?”

Artemis nodded, glancing once, pointedly, at Nyx before answering. “Yeah. Gotham Academy gives this three-week study period before exams. Exams are, like,  a week long, then we’re off for Christmas for an entire month. Overkill, if you ask me.”

“Lucky,” Wally groaned, dramatically slumping over the counter like a man wronged by fate. “A whole month off? I can’t even remember the last time I had a break longer than a nap.”

“Please,” Artemis muttered, stabbing at her scrambled eggs. “I’m terrified. If they think we need that much time to prepare, their exams must be written by demons. The place runs on trust funds, ambition, and black coffee.”

“Sounds charming,” Robin quipped as he leaned against the breakfast bar, glass of orange juice in hand and looking irritatingly awake for someone who’d supposedly helped make all this food. “I’ll be sure to send flowers to your grave.”

“Kill me now,” Artemis groaned.

“Where’s Kaldur?” Connor asked, appearing behind M’gann with a piece of toast already in hand.

“Swimming,” Robin said, entirely unbothered. “Said he needed to clear his head.”

“You didn’t eat so you could win,” Nyx said sweetly, leaning across the counter as she fixed Robin with a slow grin. “And yet, you still lost.”

Robin made a show of placing his juice down and sighing, one hand pressed dramatically to his chest. “You wound me.”

“Again?” Artemis raised a brow, smirking.

“You should’ve seen what I walked in on this morning,” Wally stage-whispered to Artemis, nudging her with exaggerated scandal. “The domesticity. The shock. The horror.”

Artemis turned to Nyx slowly, recognition flickering in her eyes. Last night’s uncomfortable conversation replayed itself like a film reel. Nyx’s expression shifted in real time, her eyes going wide with alarm as she shook her head in tiny, desperate warning, mouthing ‘no’ with growing urgency.

Robin looked between them, confused. “Am I… missing something?”

“Nothing at all,” Nyx said quickly, snatching a fork and stabbing a pancake like it owed her money.

Robin blinked. “Okay…”

Artemis bit her tongue and mercifully let it drop, for now.

The kitchen swelled with the gentle chaos of late-morning comfort: laughter echoed off the tiled walls, plates clinked as they passed hand to hand, and someone turned on the old stereo in the corner, letting soft classic rock drift into the air. For a moment, it was easy to forget the unease still laced into the corners of their lives—Red Arrow’s accusations, the gnawing tension of secrets unspoken.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Mount Justice

5th November – 19:47 EDT

The cold hum of the Zeta Tube dissipated into the air, replaced by the shuffle of boots and the muted thuds of cardboard against concrete. The team moved with casual efficiency around the Cave’s loading bay, unloading box after box from the Bioship’s open hull. The scent of dust and engine oil hung in the air, mingling with the faint electric buzz of machinery.

Batman stood at the cargo hatch like a sentinel, clipboard in gloved hand—an actual clipboard, because of course he did. He checked off each crate with that precise, near-imperceptible nod of his. Nearby, Zatara and Red Tornado worked in tandem, their movements fluid as they carried out the final shipments.

The contents were a strange mix: some boxes contained Batman’s signature array of tools, tech, and tightly packed, high-grade equipment—spare grappling lines, EMP disks, replacement utility belts. Others were far more mundane. Groceries. A baffling amount of them.

Apparently, Batman had compiled an unnecessarily thorough inventory of “sustainment goods.” M’gann had taken the liberty of expanding the list to include snacks—specifically for Wally, who had insisted on four bags of chips per mission to “maintain energy levels.” In reality, he’d used the trip as an excuse to pillage the sweets aisle like a sugar-hyped raccoon.

From the lift, Artemis and Zatanna emerged side by side, the latter wearing a soft smile, eyes alight as she took in the scene. She wasn’t technically part of the team—yet—but she already carried that same spark in her, the kind forged in fire and shared danger. The kind that made you one of them.

Just as Artemis called out, her voice dry with disbelief, “Do we seriously need this many boxes of ramen—?”

CRASH.

The sound tore through the Cave like a thunderclap.

Every head turned in unison, startled as the crates Zatara and Red Tornado had been carrying struck the ground with brutal finality—boxes splintering, contents scattering.

But the sound wasn’t what froze them.

It was the absence.

Where Zatara had stood, there was nothing. Where Red Tornado had moved only seconds before, there was empty space. Even Batman— Batman —was gone.

Vanished. Not a sound. Not a trace. 

Just crates tipped over mid-step, like the moment had been sliced clean from time.

Robin dropped the box he was holding, the echo sharp. “No—what—”

“They were right there,” Artemis said, blinking rapidly, like the image in front of her would change if she just focused hard enough.

Zatanna took an instinctive step forward, her voice cracking. “Dad?”

No answer.

Connor’s fists clenched, his breath heavy with building tension.

The team stood in a frozen tableau, their world suddenly off-balance. The cold hum of machinery continued around them, indifferent.

And the only certainty in the room was this: Something was very, very wrong.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Gotham City

5th November – 21:52 EDT

Chaos.

There was no better word for it. Not confusion. Not disorder. 

Chaos.

Pure, undiluted pandemonium.

Every adult, every mentor, every guardian, every parent was gone. Evaporated without warning, without a trace, as if the world had blinked and erased an entire generation. Children poured into the streets like floodwaters—sobbing, screaming, stumbling with tear-streaked cheeks and scraped knees, dragging siblings by the hand, clinging to stuffed animals or nothing at all.

The team split without hesitation, instinct overriding shock. Some stayed to quell the rising tide of panic. Others flew or ran or shadow-stepped to the far edges of the cities, trying to gather what was left of society’s most fragile hearts.

Gotham Academy, of all places, had become a sanctuary. Its grand, ivy-cloaked halls were now filled with sleeping bags, juice boxes, and desperate whispers. The gymnasium, normally a gleaming arena for assemblies and fencing matches, had transformed into a chaotic nursery for hundreds.

Above, the night sky rippled.

Nyx drifted across the rooftops, her body a swirl of shadow and smoke, cloaked in silent movement. Her arms stretched out, guiding the black mist beneath her, carrying a drifting cloud of children toward the school. Their faces peeked over the edge of the inky platform, wide-eyed, trembling, but safe.

She landed with barely a whisper, shadows parting like a curtain as the mist solidified into firm ground. The children scrambled off, running toward warmth and light and the promise of safety.

Inside, Barbara sat cross-legged with a book, reading aloud to a group of toddlers curled up like puppies on a patchwork of mats and blankets. Bette Kane knelt beside her, handing out juice boxes with patient precision.

From the far corner came Artemis’s voice—earnest, unsteady:

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star... um... yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full…”

A girl burst into giggles. “That’s not ‘Twinkle, Twinkle!’ That’s ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep! ’ ”

Artemis blinked, trying to course-correct. “Um… Q, R, S, T, U, V…?”

“ That’s the ABCs! ” another child howled.

Laughter rippled through the room, high-pitched and giddy. For a moment, it sounded like joy.

Nyx set her group down gently, brushing damp hair from her eyes and exhaling sharply. The air was thick with warmth and noise and the smell of peanut butter crackers.

“Got fifteen more,” she said breathlessly, straightening.

The gym doors slammed open with a bang.

Superboy stood in the frame, hair mussed, jacket torn, a crayon mark streaked across his jaw. He looked like he’d walked out of an apocalypse.

Three children clung to him, one latched onto his shoulder, happily braiding his hair with dandelions; another was halfway up his arm, licking his cheek like a popsicle; the third clutched his earlobe and tugged rhythmically, lost in thought.

Nyx buckled over in laughter. Wally made a wheezing noise and leaned on a stack of gym mats for support.

“I hate this,” Superboy muttered through gritted teeth.

“You’re a hero to us all,” Artemis said solemnly, saluting with two fingers and barely suppressing a grin.

A small boy tiptoed up to Nyx, tugging shyly at the edge of her top. His fingers were sticky. His eyes were wide.

“Yes, little man?” she said, kneeling with a gentle smile.

He stared at her, dead serious. “You’re really pretty,” he whispered. “I’m gonna marry you.”

Nyx froze.

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then—“Oh! Uh, thank you,” she stammered, cheeks dusted with pink. Her shadows curled gently around the boy and lifted him into the air like a royal procession, depositing him next to Barbara with all the ceremony of a state visit.

From behind her, Artemis bit her knuckle to keep from laughing. Wally turned around, shoulders shaking.

“Shut. Up,” Nyx hissed under her breath without turning.

“I said nothing,” Artemis coughed. “Nothing at all.”

The laughter didn’t erase the fear. It didn’t fix what was broken.

But for a moment, it kept them human.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

By 22:15, the storm had begun to calm.

Gotham. Metropolis. Star City. Even Happy Harbour, cities once teetering on the edge of collapse, were finally stabilising. No longer screaming. No longer spinning. Just breathing. Slowly.

At Gotham Academy, the gymnasium pulsed with the quiet murmur of sleeping children. Thousands of displaced lives nestled together beneath basketball nets and skylights, safe for now. It wasn’t peace, but it was shelter. It was enough.

At Mount Justice, the command centre glowed in shades of cool blue, broadcasting a message that echoed across every corner of the globe. Robin, Aqualad, and Kid Flash stood before the holo-screen, their voices steady and clear.

“—to all teens, wherever you are. If you’re hearing this, we need your help. The oldest among you must step up. Take care of the younger ones. Keep them safe. Be their family.”

It wasn’t just a call to action. It was a call to grow up —faster than any of them should’ve had to.

Nyx slid down the wall until she was sitting, arms loose at her sides, her body humming with a sick kind of exhaustion. The fine weave of her suit stuck to her skin, damp with sweat and dust. Her braid had come half undone, strands of hair sticking to her damp forehead. Around her, her shadows flickered faintly, jittery, unsettled, as overstimulated as she was.

Connor dropped beside her with a low, tired exhale, his broad frame sinking heavily against the cracked concrete. He didn’t speak. Neither did she. They sat in a comfortable silence.

Both of them sat still, chests rising and falling too fast, too shallow. Their hands, still half-curled into fists, trembled, not from fear, but from the sheer overload of it all. Sirens still echoed faintly in the distance. The memory of children's cries, of tiny hands clinging to their sleeves, clung to them more stubbornly than any dirt or sweat.

Connor’s gaze stayed fixed ahead, unfocused. Nyx’s eyes flicked once toward him, then away, as if checking to make sure he was still breathing without even realising it. Their shoulders nearly brushed, but neither shifted closer. They didn’t need to touch to know the other was there.

It wasn’t battle fatigue this time—it was something quieter, heavier. A bone-deep weariness from carrying too much fear that didn’t belong to them. From being strong for someone else for too long, and for dealing with annoying little children who wouldn’t shut up.

They sat in the thick, humming quiet, two weapons forced into softer roles, feeling every jagged edge of it.

“You okay?” Robin asked, his voice softer now, as he walked over.

Nyx didn’t open her eyes. She managed a crooked smirk. “Never better.”

The lift hissed open. Zatanna stepped out, her boots clicking with purpose, costume pristine despite the day’s chaos. Her eyes shone with something fierce. Conviction .“I’m ready,” she said, chin lifted. “I’m going to try the spell.”

The team gathered around the glowing holo-globe, its light washing over them like moonlight. Robin activated the interface, fingers flying across the controls.

Zatanna raised her arms, her voice low but steady as she intoned, “Etacol retnecipe fo yrecros!”

The globe spun violently, a storm of stars and red lines swirling across its surface—then, silence. A single, blinking crimson dot pulsed like a heartbeat.

Roanoke Island.

“You did it,” Robin breathed, eyes wide. “Coordinates locked.”

“It worked!” came a small voice.

The team turned.

A child stood just inside the circle of light. No one had seen him enter. He was maybe ten, maybe eleven—round face, bright eyes, standing with his shoulders back like he belonged here.

Kaldur stepped forward, cautious. “Where did you come from?”

The boy turned to M’gann. “Quick! Read my mind!”

Her brow furrowed. Then her eyes went wide. “He’s—he’s Captain Marvel .”

Wally blinked. “Yeah, and I’m Speedy Gonzales. Look, just because he thinks he’s—”

“Geez, Wally,” the boy interrupted with a smirk, “do I really need to bring you pineapple juice and nachos to earn your trust?”

Wally’s mouth fell open.

The silence was instantaneous and absolute. Even the holo-globe seemed to pause mid-spin.

Nyx stared, speechless.

Then—“Oh my God,” she whispered, voice cracking with disbelief.

Captain Marvel—ten years old, standing barefoot in the centre of their base, smiling like the world hadn’t just ended.

Of course, he was here. Of course, he hadn’t disappeared.

Because he was a kid.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Roanoke Island

5th November – 22:37 EDT 

The battlefield blazed in an ominous crimson glow, bathed in flickering light that twisted every shadow into something monstrous. Smoke coiled through the air like phantom serpents, and the ground itself throbbed beneath their feet, scorched with arcane runes and jagged cracks.

At the centre, Klarion the Witch Boy stood atop a glowing yellow pentagram scorched into the earth. Teekl, his infernal familiar, was curled at his feet like a sphinx, eyes burning with unnatural fire. Before them hovered a floating crystal—blood-red and pulsing like a living heart. Every beat sent waves of chaotic magic rippling outward, warping the air.

Robin and Artemis struck first—arrows and batarangs flying in perfect synchrony. But Klarion merely flicked his wrist, and the projectiles disintegrated into harmless sparks.

“Uh uh uhh,” Klarion sang mockingly, eyes glittering. “No toys allowed.”

“Hey, chaos witch!” Nyx’s voice rang out across the field, sharp as a blade. She stood atop a jagged column of rock, silhouetted against the haze, her form half-dissolved into tendrils of shadow. “Pick on someone your own size.”

Klarion turned with a dramatic gasp. “ You again? Ugh—shadows and brooding? So last season.”

He hurled a bolt of blood-red magic at her. It twisted like a serpent mid-air.

Nyx vanished into the mist.

She reformed behind him, tendrils of darkness exploding outward like a spider’s web. Teekl hissed and lunged, but a sonic boom shattered the moment.

Superboy crashed down like a comet, the ground cratering beneath his boots.

“I hate that cat,” he growled, teeth bared.

“Get in line, SB,” Nyx muttered, panting. Together, they surged toward the barrier around the pentagram, striking with brute force and shadowed fury—but the magical dome shimmered and held, resisting them like steel.

Zatanna stood behind them, chanting fast and desperate. Her magic lit the air in silver-blue runes, but Klarion only cackled and, with a swipe of his fingers, sent a crimson shockwave toward her.

She screamed as she was flung backwards. Superboy caught her before she hit the ground, his arms trembling under the impact.

“Last time we beat Klarion, we hit the cat!” KF shouted over the team’s mental link.

“Copy that,” Nyx said grimly.

She turned, launching barbed shadows toward Teekl. The feline shrieked and warped, transforming in a grotesque flash—its body quadrupling in size, claws like scythes, eyes twin suns of hellfire.

The beast pounced. Nyx threw up her arms too late. Claws ripped through her side, her cry cut off as she was flung like a ragdoll.

“Nyx!” Robin’s voice cracked through the chaos.

Then it happened.

The crystal began to spark, flickering like lightning trapped in glass. A scream of energy exploded from its core, a firestorm of raw power. The earth buckled.

Artemis and Robin were blown off their feet, tumbling across the broken ground. Nyx hit the dirt beside them, blood blooming across her ribs. Aqualad staggered, arms up against the wind.

A flicker of white light appeared, and suddenly, Billy Batson was there, panting, wide-eyed.

“We have to—” he started.

Miss Martian was beside him in an instant, clapping a hand over his mouth.

“ Don’t shout, Billy. You’re linked to everyone now—telepathically.”

Billy’s eyes went wide. “Oh. Cool—uh, I mean: destroy the crystal at the centre of the pentagram. That’s the source. Break it, and we win!”

Zatanna stood. Her breathing was shallow. Her arms were shaking. But in her hands, she cradled the Helmet of Fate.

Aqualad’s voice cracked. “Zatanna—don’t. You don’t have to do this! ”

“I do,” she whispered.

Her fingers trembled. Then steadied.

“I have to.”

And she placed the Helmet on her head. A golden flash erupted, brilliant and blinding. The battlefield trembled beneath the force of it.

When the light faded, Doctor Fate rose. Regal. Unstoppable. In the same heartbeat, Billy vanished in a blast of thunder.

“ Shazam! ”

Lightning tore through the sky.

Nyx lay on the ground, barely conscious, her breathing ragged. Through blurred eyes, she watched the tide shift. The battle was far from over—but fate itself had entered the field.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Consciousness returned like a slow, dragging tide. Pain bloomed first—dull and throbbing, radiating from her side where claws had torn flesh. Then came the ache in her limbs, the metallic taste of blood on her tongue, and the grit of shattered earth beneath her fingertips.

Nyx’s eyes fluttered open.

Above her, the sky was fractured with golden light and lingering smoke. Robin was crouched at her side, bruised and bloodied, his eyes dark with worry.

“Did we win?” she asked, her voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Robin hesitated, gaze flicking upward.

“At a cost,” came Aqualad’s voice, quiet and heavy with grief.

Nyx shifted, wincing, and followed their gaze.

Zatanna—no, not Zatanna—hovered above the battlefield, wreathed in a halo of golden magic. The Helmet of Fate gleamed atop her head like a crown forged by the gods. But it wasn’t her. Not anymore.

From the edge of the scorched circle, a figure stepped forward. His silhouette was familiar, strong, and resolute.

“Release her!” Zatara’s voice cut through the silence, firm as steel. “Take me instead.”

Doctor Fate turned slowly, the golden cape billowing around his form, otherworldly eyes glowing behind the mask. “And if I do,” he intoned, voice layered with ancient power, “what guarantee have I that you will serve without resistance?”

Zatara didn’t flinch. “My word.”

A beat of silence passed—pregnant, terrible.

Then, the magic shifted.

Zatanna gasped, her body arching as the Helmet released her in a shimmer of gold dust and crackling light. She collapsed, boneless, into her father’s arms, sobs already breaking in her throat.

“No,” Zatanna gasped, the word catching hard in her throat. Her hands scrabbled uselessly at her father’s sleeves, clutching him like she could anchor him to her, like sheer will might hold him back from the brink. “No, Dad, please—don’t do this.”

Zatara pulled her in, arms wrapping around her trembling frame with a fierce, desperate tenderness. She felt him breathe against her hair, felt the sharp, final shudder of a man choosing to sacrifice everything.

“Remember I love you,” he whispered, his voice thick with all the words he would never get to say, pressing his forehead to hers in a touch so heartbreakingly gentle it might as well have shattered her.

“No—” Her cry tore out of her chest, raw and wild, slicing through the chaos like a blade drawn across skin.

But it was too late.

The Helmet rose, weightless and gleaming like a verdict. It hung for an instant above them, catching the red haze of the ruined air—then, with a finality that made her bones ache, it came down.

A blinding flash ripped the world apart. White-gold light seared the air, swallowing her scream, swallowing everything.

When the light faded, silence rolled in—horrible and endless. The kind of silence that means something precious has been severed from the world.

Standing where her father had been was no longer Giovanni Zatara. It was Doctor Fate.

Cold. Unreachable. And Zatanna–  Zatanna was alone.

She collapsed to her knees, trembling. Her body shook with the violence of grief, shoulders heaving as she sobbed into the dust. The team formed a quiet circle around her, all battle-worn, too bruised to speak. No one moved to touch her, not yet. The loss radiated from her in waves.

The air was thick with magic, with sacrifice, with the echo of what they had won—and what they had lost to win it.

The price of magic had been paid.

And it was far, far too high.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Luthor Penthouse

5th November – 20:49 EDT

The city stretched out beneath the penthouse like an endless sea of lights, each one flickering against the night, sharp and bright against the indigo sky. Gotham’s skyline rose like jagged teeth, imposing and unyielding. The windows of the penthouse, massive and gleaming, framed the view in cold clarity, the city pulse reverberating through every reflection on the glass.

Arabella emerged from the shadows in the far corner of her bedroom, her footsteps quiet, almost imperceptible against the polished floor. The mist of darkness that had wrapped around her like a second skin evaporated in tendrils, swirling away from the soles of her sneakers as if reluctant to let her go. Her fingers still clenched around her forgotten sunglasses, the weight of them almost alien in her hand as she walked. Her pulse raced in her throat, echoing in the stillness of the room, a thudding, anxious rhythm as though she had sprinted the length of Gotham itself, rather than merely crossed her bedroom. Each step toward the door felt like it dragged her closer to something inevitable, something she'd never quite been able to prepare for.

When she reached the study door, she stopped. Her fingers hovered over the handle for a brief moment, as if the weight of the moment itself could freeze her in place. She could feel her breath coming in shallow gasps, a tightness gripping her chest, her nerves electrified. But then, her will took hold—sharp, focused. Arabella let the shadows coil around her wrist like a cool, familiar embrace, tendrils slipping beneath the doorframe and whispering their way into the lock. It gave way with a soft click at her command, yielding like it always did, following the pull of her will.

The door creaked open, and Arabella stepped into the study.

“Father?” Her voice came out soft, fragile in the stillness, cracking just as her shadows withdrew, leaving no trace of their presence.

Lex Luthor was already standing, as though he had been waiting for her, the sharpness of his figure cutting through the dim light of the study. He turned around. His eyes, unreadable and intense, met hers. The space between them stretched out like an ocean, vast and full of untold truths.

“Arabella,” he said. The words were simple, but they carried the weight of years.

It was all he said. All he needed to say.

She didn’t wait. Without another thought, without hesitation, she moved toward him. Her feet barely touched the floor as she rushed forward, her heart thrumming, and in that single, desperate moment, all the words and the worlds they had never shared crashed together.

Her body collided with his in a soft but undeniable impact. The thud of her chest against his felt like the release of every breath she’d been holding. There were no clever words, no sharp retorts, no bitter, rehearsed speeches. No time for anything other than the overwhelming need to feel his presence, his warmth, his solidity.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t fragile.

It was raw. It was frantic. It was desperate.

Arabella clung to him as though the weight of everything she had discovered would crush her if she didn’t hold on. Her arms wrapped around him, pulling herself close, tighter—like she could absorb some sense of safety through his skin. His arms folded around her in return, firm and unyielding, his chin resting on top of her head.

She could feel the heat of his body, steady beneath her cheek, and his heartbeat thudded against her like a distant drum. For all the secrets he kept buried deep within, for all the coldness she had witnessed in him, for the way he wielded power as though it were his alone to command, Arabella still found herself lost in him. She still loved him, even when she didn’t want to. Even when the reality of what she knew threatened to shatter everything they had built, this twisted, painful bond between them.

That love... It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t easy. It was frayed and raw and tangled in resentment, in grief, in unanswered questions. But it was there. It was always there.

“I couldn’t find you,” she whispered into his shoulder, her voice breaking as the words escaped her. The sound was fragile, as if her throat could hardly hold it in. “You were gone. Everyone was gone.”

Lex didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His embrace tightened, pulling her deeper into his arms, as if he could shield her from all the brokenness between them with that single motion. The world outside seemed distant, unreachable, and for a moment, it felt like it had been reduced to just the two of them, in that space. Alone.

Arabella closed her eyes, her forehead resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart beneath her cheek. The noise of the city, the rush of her thoughts—all of it faded into a dull hum as she focused on the simple, quiet comfort of his presence.

She didn’t let go. Not yet. Not until the warmth of his arms could convince her, just for a moment, that maybe she was still home.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Mount Justice

7th November – 09:16 EST 

The morning at Mount Justice was quieter than usual, the atmosphere thick with something unspoken—grief, perhaps, or the weight of everything that had happened only days before.

The team were gathered around the corridor leading to the new room that had been prepared, helping Zatanna move her belongings inside. M’gann floated a stack of boxes with her telekinesis, gently setting them down by the wall. Artemis carried a few of Zatanna’s books in her arms, placing them carefully on the desk. Robin leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed but watchful, while Nyx helped adjust the bedside lamp and tucked the corners of the sheets.

It wasn’t much, but they wanted it to feel like home.

Zatanna stood in the centre of the room, arms folded tightly across her chest, her bag still slung over one shoulder. Her eyes scanned the space, lingering on the small touches—soft pillows, lavender candles, the carefully folded blanket at the foot of the bed. All signs that someone cared.

“My room’s right next door if you need anything,” M’gann said gently, giving her a small, hopeful smile.

“And mine’s just down the hall,” Nyx added, her tone softer than usual. She didn’t want to intrude, but she wanted Zatanna to know she wasn’t alone.

“Thanks,” Zatanna murmured, voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze remained on the floor for a beat longer before lifting to meet theirs. Her eyes were glazed, not from tears, but from the sheer weight of what she was carrying. “I… I could use a little time. Just to myself. If that’s okay.”

“Of course,” Artemis said at once, her voice calm, understanding.

Robin gave a quiet nod, pushing off the doorframe. “We’ll give you space.”

No more words were needed. The four of them stepped out of the room in silence, each stealing one last glance at her before the door gently clicked shut behind them.

On the other side, Zatanna stood in the quiet, surrounded by her things, by comfort, by care, but still, it felt so hollow without her father.

And outside, in the corridor, the others lingered for a moment longer before dispersing—quiet, thoughtful, and carrying the weight of knowing that even in a place filled with heroes… There were still some battles you had to face alone.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The door clicked shut behind them with a soft snick, muffling the outside world like the closing of a storybook. The hallway’s sterile hum faded, replaced by the hush of Nyx’s room—a sanctuary carved from shadow and amber light. Robin stepped in, eyes adjusting as the gloom embraced him. The bedside lamp cast a golden glow, its soft light gilding the pages of scattered books and catching on the curve of her desk lamp, the dull edge of a throwing star embedded in a corkboard above it.

Shadows moved along the walls like sleepy familiars, curling languidly along the skirting boards as if the room itself exhaled in her presence.

Robin hesitated near the doorway, his silhouette framed by the faint gleam of the corridor. “Is your head okay?” he asked, his voice low, the concern audible beneath the casual phrasing. His gaze flicked to the side of her temple—the place where Teekl’s paw had struck with vicious precision.

Nyx turned, already tugging loose the band that held her hair, fingers combing through the dark strands as they tumbled around her shoulders. The flicker of a smile touched her lips—wry, tired, but real. “Yeah,” she murmured, lifting her brows in mock challenge. “Takes more than a demon cat to knock me out for good.” Her tone lightened. “I took it that hard to the head, huh?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stepped forward. The shift in his eyes said more than words—still scanning her for bruises, the shadows might’ve hidden.

Then, without hesitation, he lifted a hand and gently brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. His thumb lingered, grazing the faintest scrape near her temple, featherlight.

And then he bent his head and kissed her forehead.

“I was so worried,” he murmured against her skin, the tremble of it betraying everything he hadn’t said during the mission. His arms slid around her without ceremony, pulling her to him like a lifeline.

Nyx melted into the embrace, her arms winding tight around his waist as her face found the familiar comfort of his sweatshirt. The fabric was soft with wear, and it smelled like him—sandalwood and something citrus-clean, like late summer rain on concrete. She breathed him in. He felt like steadiness. Like safety. Like home.

They stood like that for a while, in silence broken only by the sound of their breathing.

Then, softly: “I saw my father that night.”

Robin’s hold didn’t loosen, but she felt the subtle shift in his posture—his shoulders drawing taut for just a second.

“And?” he asked, his voice so careful it didn’t even echo in the quiet.

Nyx’s breath hitched faintly. “It was… like when I was little,” she murmured. “The way he held me. Like I was still his little girl. Like nothing had changed.” She gave a small, almost broken laugh. “Even though everything has.”

Robin pulled back, just enough to look at her. His fingers found the edge of her jaw, tender and grounding, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m glad,” he said softly. “That he gave you that—even if it’s complicated.”

She met his gaze. Her eyes gleamed in the low light, searching his face like it held answers to questions she hadn’t dared to speak aloud. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Robin…”

“Yeah?”

“I want you.”

His eyes widened slightly, brows lifting in surprise. “What?”

“I want this,” she said, bolder now, her words trembling with honesty. “I want you. Whatever this is between us… I want it.”

He blinked, thrown for a moment. “Nyx—”

“I mean, unless you don’t,” she rushed on, crossing her arms, her voice spiralling into uncertainty. “Maybe I’ve misread everything and I shouldn’t have—”

He caught her hands before she could take another step back, his fingers wrapping around hers with quiet surety.

“No,” he said, the laugh that escaped him warm and stunned. “I do. I really do. I just didn’t expect you to say it first.”

A smile tugged at her lips, sheepish and sweet. “Well… someone had to.”

Robin let out a breath, his grin blooming slowly and genuinely. He stepped forward, leaned in, and kissed her.

It was soft. Careful. The kind of kiss that asked permission even as it offered comfort. Her fingers curled into the hem of his jumper, anchoring herself to the moment. One hand slid up to the nape of his neck, her touch gentle, exploratory. His hands settled lightly at her waist, holding her as if afraid she’d vanish.

The kiss deepened, laughter brushing between them in breathless sparks as they made their way to the bed. They tumbled back into the pillows, limbs tangled. Nyx slid into his lap, legs folded on either side of him, her heart thundering in her chest.

Robin stilled slightly, clearly surprised, but his smile never faltered. Their kisses grew bolder, laced with giggles and half-whispered promises. His hands traced the small of her back in slow circles. Her lips grazed his throat, featherlight.

Then she pulled back, breathless, cheeks flushed with colour.

“I want you to be my first,” she whispered, her lips brushing the shell of his ear.

Robin stiffened, blinking rapidly. “Wait—what?” he croaked. “Like—you mean—?”

Nyx rolled her eyes and smacked his chest lightly. “Relax, Boy Wonder. First make-out. ”

“Oh, thank God,” he muttered, slumping back with an exaggerated groan. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“You thought I meant sex?” she snorted. “Please. I’m only fourteen. I haven’t even finished revising for my next econ test.”

He laughed, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, fair. But still.”

He laughed, running a hand through his hair. “Fair point.” Then, tilting his head, he added, “Do you know how to…?” 

She shook her head. “Not really. I mean, I’ve read things, seen things in movies, but…” She shrugged. “You’re going to have to teach me, Boy Wonder .” 

Robin’s grin turned smug. “Well, I’ve got to say—you’re already a pretty great kisser.” 

“ Pretty great ?” Nyx raised a brow. 

“Incomparable,” he corrected, voice low and warm. “Utterly, incomparable.” 

He laughed—and then kissed her again, this time deeper, with a surety that melted her straight into him. One hand cradled her jaw, the other tangled in her hair. Their bodies fit in that messy, perfect way that felt like they’d been waiting for this far longer than either would admit.

Their laughter faded, replaced by hushed sighs and soft, startled sounds of closeness. There was no rush—only warmth and wonder and the slow realisation that this, whatever it was, was real.

The world outside could wait.

For now, they had each other—and that was enough.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The room had quieted into something more than silence—something intimate, reverent. The kind of stillness that hung like gossamer in the air, spun from golden lamplight and the soft cadence of their breathing. The shadows had settled now, no longer flickering along the walls but pooling gently in the corners, like velvet curtains drawn around a moment too fragile to disturb.

They lay curled together atop the duvet, limbs tangled not out of necessity but choice, the casual closeness of two people who had long since stopped pretending they didn’t crave it. Nyx rested on her side, cheek pressed to Robin’s chest, where the slow, steady beat of his heart sounded through the worn cotton of his sweatshirt like a lullaby. His arm encircled her waist, fingers tracing lazy circles against her hip, the motion unthinking but achingly tender.

“I like this,” Robin murmured, voice low and gravel-soft, vibrating through her like a second heartbeat. He tightened his hold just slightly, a subconscious tug that said stay.

Nyx’s fingers toyed with the hem of his sleeve. “Me too,” she breathed, the words settling between them like a shared secret.

A beat passed before she asked, quietly, “Did you always want to do what you do? Be… this?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His brow furrowed faintly above her, not in resistance but in thought. “Not exactly,” he admitted at last. “I wanted to help people. I still do. But it wasn’t… a choice. Not really. Not at the start.”

Nyx nodded, the movement slight against his chest. “Same. It was more like… being chosen. And once you’re in, there’s no undoing it.” Her voice softened to a murmur. “Bruce didn’t give me much room to say no.”

Robin’s hand rose to brush a strand of hair from her face, the backs of his knuckles ghosting over her temple. “Do you ever think about leaving? Walking away from all of it?”

“All the time,” she whispered, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the wall. “But I couldn’t. Even when I want to. It’s in me now. The shadows, the fight, the mission —it’s the only thing that makes me feel like I have any control.”

He let out a slow breath, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. “Yeah,” he said, voice quieter still. “Exactly that.”

She shifted, just enough to lie on her back beside him, turning so she could see his face. The lamplight painted soft gold across the curve of his jaw, catching the shadow beneath his lashes.

“Do you have anyone who knows?” she asked. “Like, outside of all this?”

He hesitated, eyes meeting hers. “A few. Wally knows. But not everything. No one really does. It’s safer that way.”

Nyx gave a quiet chuckle. “It’s so weird, isn’t it? We’re here, talking like this, and I still don’t know your name.”

“You could always ask,” he offered, a flicker of mischief in his smile.

She narrowed her eyes. “Would you tell me?”

“Maybe one day.” His gaze dropped, brushing lightly over the star-shaped charm at her collarbone. “You haven’t told me yours either.”

She shrugged. “Maybe one day,” she echoed, her smile matching his in mystery and quiet promise.

The air between them shifted—not heavy, not hesitant, just soft. Honest. The kind of space where truths could wait their turn without needing to be dragged into the light.

Robin reached for the folded throw blanket at the foot of her bed and tugged it up over them, tucking it around her shoulders.

“You’re cold,” he murmured.

“You’re warm,” she countered, curling into him with a pleased sigh.

He grinned into her hair. “Perk of years of acrobatics. Human furnace.”

“Convenient,” she mumbled, content.

The room felt wrapped in a hush now, something sacred and slow. The kind of stillness that only comes after storms, where nothing needed to be said because everything was being felt. The light bathed the room in a syrupy gold, catching the outlines of their forms, tracing the shape of closeness like a poem.

Nyx’s fingers grazed the soft fabric of his sleeve again, idly drawing patterns. She could feel his heartbeat through his chest, rhythmic and grounding. Everything between them—the ache of the past couple of weeks, the stolen glances, the bruises from battle and the brush of lips—lingered like incense in the air, but beneath it all was something gentler. Something that felt like peace.

She broke the silence with a whisper. “Do you think we’ll ever be able to tell each other everything?”

He didn’t answer right away. His hand drifted from her arm to her shoulder, thumb sweeping gently across her skin as though weighing her question with care.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I think we will. When we’re ready.”

A small smile curved her lips. She pressed them softly to the fabric of his shirt. “Good.”

They stayed like that until his voice, low and teasing, broke the quiet. “Tell me again… how you had a crush on me when you were eight?”

Nyx groaned, muffling her face against his chest. “You’re the worst .”

His laugh rumbled beneath her cheek. “Come on. It’s adorable. You, tiny, terrifying Nyx, watching old mission footage and swooning. I bet you even had a poster.”

“I did not have a poster,” she muttered, lifting her head just enough to glare at him. Her blush betrayed her.

Robin grinned, utterly smug. “So what was it? Doodles in your school planner? Mrs Boy Wonder scribbled in sparkly pen?”

She shoved him half-heartedly, giggling. “You are insufferable .”

He caught her hand before it could retreat, brought it to his lips, and kissed her knuckles with mock solemnity. “But loveable, yeah?”

Nyx rolled her eyes, though her smile gave her away. “Maybe.”

He gave an exaggerated sigh and pulled her back into his arms. “You wound me.”

“I’m sure your ego will survive,” she said, settling against him once more.

And it did. Because in that moment, in that sacred hush of shadow and golden light, they were just two hearts learning how to beat in tandem. Not soldiers, not legacies, not mysteries waiting to be unravelled—just Nyx and Robin.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The door to Nyx’s room eased open just past midday, spilling a sliver of dim light into the hallway before two shadows slipped out. Nyx and Robin emerged in hushed laughter, shoulders brushing as they shared the dying echo of some private joke. Her dark hair was slightly mussed, cheeks still kissed with a faint, unmistakable flush. Robin, for his part, looked every inch the picture of smug satisfaction—his hair more tousled than usual, lips curved in the echo of a grin that hadn't left his face since they'd shut that door hours ago.

They padded barefoot into the lounge, their steps soft against the smooth floors, trying to appear casual. The team, meanwhile, was strewn about the space like a still-life of downtime: Wally and Connor hunched on the sofa in a pitched video game battle, white-knuckled on their controllers as they leaned forward like gladiators locked in combat. M’gann perched at the kitchen island, surrounded by a colourful mess of cookbooks and scribbled notes, her brow furrowed as she flipped pages with careful deliberation. Artemis was sprawled across an adjacent armchair, long legs dangling over the side, one earbud in as she scrolled her phone with the air of someone halfway between boredom and vigilance. Kaldur sat cross-legged near the sliding glass doors, his guitar in his lap, fingers coaxing out a gentle, wandering tune that drifted lazily through the room.

Zatanna was still absent—likely taking the morning to herself, or perhaps deep in one of the meditation sessions she liked to keep private. Her father still lingered in her mind.

Wally’s head snapped up first, his senses finely attuned to any chance for drama. His eyes narrowed, lips twitching as he elbowed Connor without looking away from the new arrivals.

“And where, may I ask,” he drawled, a grin already spreading across his face like wildfire, “have you two been hiding for the last three hours ?”

Nyx didn’t flinch. “My room,” she said smoothly, folding her arms as she leaned against the wall, cool and unbothered.

Artemis sat up immediately, her phone forgotten mid-scroll. She fixed Nyx with a look, sharp and amused, arms crossing in a mirrored posture. “Uh-huh,” she said slowly, suspicion wrapped in wry disbelief. “And what, exactly, were you doing in there?”

Robin’s eyes darted to Nyx like a silent SOS. A beat. Then, “Reading,” he said.

“Yeah,” Nyx echoed, quick and firm. “We were… reading.”

Artemis raised a brow. “ Reading? Really ?” she echoed. “Alright then, bookworms—what were you reading?”

“Jane Eyre,” Nyx replied without missing a beat.

“Little Women,” Robin said at the same time.

A vacuum of silence followed. Even Kaldur’s fingers stilled on the strings.

Artemis blinked once, slowly. “Riiight,” she said, voice tight with barely suppressed laughter. “Caught red-handed, children.”

Wally let out a wild, unrestrained cackle, practically folding in half where he sat, pounding the floor with one hand as if to physically release the sheer absurdity of the moment. His laughter bounced off the Cave’s high ceilings, infectious and bright, shattering the lazy calm of the evening.

Across the room, Connor smirked, small, sharp, and entirely unbothered, though he didn’t lift his gaze from the controller gripped loosely in his hands. His thumbs moved with practised ease over the buttons, but there was a certain tilt to his head, an unmistakable twitch at the corner of his mouth, that betrayed how closely he was listening.

M’gann pressed both hands over her mouth, her cheeks puffing up with the effort not to squeal out loud. Her green skin flushed a shade darker, eyes wide with sparkling amusement. She bounced slightly on the balls of her feet, unable to contain her gleeful energy even as she tried, futilely, to keep it quiet.

Kaldur let out a small, breathy chuckle, a rare crack in his usual calm. He shook his head in quiet, good-natured defeat, the silver beads in his hair catching the warm light as he leaned forward to gently set his guitar aside, as if even the solemn weight of Atlantean craftsmanship couldn’t save him from being dragged into the ridiculousness unfurling around them.

Nyx groaned. “Oh no. No. Kaldur, don’t even think about it.”

“Sit down,” Kaldur said calmly, gesturing to the sofa. “Both of you.”

Robin flopped onto the cushions with the dramatic air of someone facing trial by fire. “I’m fifteen. I don’t need a full team intervention every time I flirt.”

“You’re almost fifteen,” Wally shot back, positively gleaming with joy. “Not quite there yet, buddy.”

Robin glared. “I’m not a child.”

“No, no,” Artemis said, adopting a deliberately serious tone. “You’re growing. It’s… natural. When your hormones start to—uh— develop … and you start feeling these feelings —”

“Kill me,” Nyx muttered into her hands. “Actually, kill me. If you give us the talk, I will literally shadow-step into the sun.”

“We didn’t do anything crazy,” Robin added, his voice strained. “We just made out. Big deal!”

Nyx peeked at the others through her fingers. “Yeah, M’gann and Connor do it all the time.”

Another beat of silence. The game paused. Slowly, Wally turned toward the couple on the couch, blinking.

“Wait—what?”

“You’re only just figuring that out?” Artemis said, snorting.

Wally spun toward Connor and M’gann, pointing accusingly at himself. “ Am I that thick? ”

“Yes,” came the collective, deadpan chorus.

M’gann burst into giggles, cheeks pink, while Connor shrugged, entirely unfazed.

“Anyway,” Artemis said, brushing hair behind her ear, “just… don’t do anything stupid, okay? I’m serious. Like I said, I don’t want to see mini Robins running around throwing baby batarangs at everything.”

Nyx visibly shuddered, her shoulders curling in mock distaste. “You’re so not funny.”

Robin’s eyes widened comically, his mouth hanging open for a second before he recovered, disbelief written all over his face. “You’ve talked about this?” he squeaked, his voice hitting a pitch he rarely allowed it to go.

M’gann, however, was lost in her own world. “Mini Robins would be adorable,” she said dreamily, her voice a mix of wistfulness and pure affection, as if she could already picture tiny versions of the boy wonder running around the Cave, causing all sorts of mischief.

Wally spun around with all the dramatic flair he could muster, hands raised like the room itself had just betrayed him. “Don’t encourage them!” he wailed, as though this entire discussion had been an elaborate conspiracy against his sanity.

Kaldur, ever the calm anchor of the group, raised a hand as if trying to bring some order to the chaos. His voice was steady, authoritative, but not harsh. “Let’s refocus. Are you two… official now?” His gaze flickered between Nyx and Robin, calm curiosity etched in his features.

Robin froze for just a beat, his eyes darting to Nyx. She met his gaze, her smile shy but certain, something new and soft and undeniable in her expression. She didn’t look away, as though every unspoken word was already shared between them. Robin’s heart skipped, and with a slow but deliberate motion, he reached over, taking her hand in his. His fingers intertwined with hers, the simple touch grounding him, making the chaotic whirlwind of their shared history feel momentarily still.

“We are,” he said softly, his voice low but clear, a quiet confidence in the declaration.

Nyx nodded, her cheeks flushing a deep pink, but this time, she didn’t hide it. There was no need. The warmth spreading through her wasn’t something to be ashamed of. Instead, she felt lighter, more whole than she had in a long time.

Wally, always the source of comedic relief when the mood turned too tender, muttered under his breath, looking between the two with exaggerated dread. “Well, just do me one favour.”

Robin sighed, rolling his eyes even as he braced himself. “What?” he asked, knowing he was about to be hit with something ridiculous.

“Just, whatever you do,” Wally said solemnly, “don’t make out in front of me. My eyes are precious. I like being able to see.”

“Noted,” Nyx said dryly.

Robin leaned closer, mischief dancing in his eyes, and stage-whispered, “We’ll do it when you’re not looking.”

“ARGH!” Wally groaned, dramatic as ever, flinging himself backwards into the cushions with the flair of a dying actor. He slapped both hands over his face, muffling a series of exaggerated complaints. “I hate everything!”

Laughter erupted again—full-throated and genuine—echoing through the space in messy, overlapping bursts. It wasn’t the cold, cavernous kind of sound the Cave sometimes held after missions. This was different. It wrapped around them like a golden net, like sunlight pouring unexpectedly through storm clouds—rare, a little wild, and impossibly warm.

Nyx felt it settle into her bones before she even realised it. She leaned a little closer to Robin, their shoulders brushing lightly, almost thoughtlessly. She was still smiling—a real smile, unguarded and bright.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t easy. They were still young, still tripping over their secrets, still navigating the fragile, aching pull of something more. Still half-shaped by the weight of what they carried. But whatever this was, the laughter, the touch, the sudden swell of belonging. 

She liked it.

She liked him.

She really did.

Chapter Text

Mount Justice

November 9th – 08:32 EST

The mats were freshly laid across the floor, a soft grey canvas that muffled the echo of footsteps and strikes. Overhead, the industrial fans stirred the air into a light chill, carrying the faint tang of sweat and rubber. Morning light slanted in through the high windows, casting long lines across the training room, and the team was already in various stages of warm-up.

M’gann floated a foot off the ground near the back wall, legs crossed, eyes closed in serene concentration as she practised her meditative breathing. Kaldur methodically adjusted the tension on his wrist wraps, while Wally bounced in place, trying to goad him into a pre-spar sprint-off. Artemis lounged nearby, half-stretching, half-scrolling through her phone. Even Connor had joined in today, standing off to one side, cracking his knuckles with barely suppressed impatience.

Nyx stood beside Robin near the edge of the mat, both dressed in their streamlined black training gear, hers sleeveless, shadows already coiling faintly around her like mist responding to mood. Their heads were tilted together, voices low as they exchanged some snarky back-and-forth only they could hear.

Black Canary leaned against the far wall with effortless poise, arms crossed, watching the room with a trainer’s measured stillness. Her gaze lingered a second longer on Nyx and Robin.

“All right,” Dinah called out, her voice slicing through the ambient chatter like a blade. “We’re starting with one-on-ones. Nyx. Robin. You’re up.”

They looked at each other, something sparking behind their eyes, a silent, amused understanding. Robin rolled his shoulders as he stepped forward, and Nyx followed, pulling her hair into a loose knot at the nape of her neck, jaw already tilted in challenge.

“Don’t go easy on me just because we’re dating,” she murmured, voice low and dry as she stretched one arm overhead, eyes locked on him.

Robin’s lips tugged into a crooked smirk. “I wasn’t planning to.”

Nyx’s smile turned sharp. “That’s adorable.”

Dinah’s expression didn’t change, but one eyebrow lifted—ever so slightly.

[Training Match: Nyx vs Robin. Begin.]

The rest of the team moved to the edge of the mat, instinctively leaning forward.

They started slow, almost teasing in their pace, two dancers locked in a familiar rhythm. They circled, light-footed, measuring. Nyx struck first: a high, arcing kick that sliced through the air with precision. Robin dipped low, dodging neatly, then slid forward into a low feint, reaching for her leg. She twisted back before he could connect, landing in a crouch with one hand splayed against the mat.

Their movements flowed like a rehearsed duet, fluid, controlled, almost too rehearsed.

“That was the same combo from last week,” Robin muttered as he caught her elbow mid-strike.

“I knew you’d remember,” she replied, twisting out of his grip to hook her leg behind his knee.

He let her gain leverage, just long enough for the contact, before he reversed, and suddenly they were chest to chest, arms tangled, breathing sharp. Their gazes locked. Their bodies stilled. Just for a moment, the world narrowed to them.

“Okay,” Artemis hissed to Wally, “this is starting to look a little less like sparring and a little more like a CW drama.”

“Are we gonna need a crib in the cave?” Wally whispered gleefully. 

Dinah’s eyes narrowed.

“Focus,” she called sharply, her voice laced with dry authority. “This is a spar, not a soap opera.”

Nyx immediately stepped back, coughing slightly. Robin rubbed the back of his neck, trying and failing to appear unfazed.

“Sorry,” they muttered in unison.

Dinah gestured for them to continue.

This time, they moved faster, no more coyness. The strikes came quicker, sharper. Robin ducked a hook, swept low, and nearly took Nyx’s legs out from under her. She recovered in a blink, shadows coiling instinctively around her calves as she leapt, countering with a spinning kick. The crowd let out a collective breath as Robin blocked, barely. Their footwork was tight. Their timing was perfect. But even in the heat of it, their instincts bent toward each other. A hesitation here. A pulled punch there. Shadows that ghosted over Robin’s skin without ever quite touching him.

After a flurry of exchanges, Nyx swept his legs out cleanly. Robin hit the mat with a controlled thud, exhaling hard. She stood over him, panting, her expression smug.

“I win.”

He looked up at her with a grin, not the least bit defeated. “Only because I let you.”

“Oh, please.”

Dinah stepped forward before the flirtation could spark again.

“Save the pillow talk for after training,” she said, deadpan. “Off the mat.”

Robin groaned and sat up. Nyx offered him a hand; he took it, and she pulled him smoothly to his feet.

Dinah gestured for them to step aside. “The two of you, with me. Now.”

There were murmurs from the sidelines—teasing, snickering, even a mock whistle from Wally.

They followed Dinah to the far end of the room where the light was dimmer, and the echoes from the mat faded behind them.

Dinah stopped and turned, arms folded, expression unreadable.

“So,” she said slowly, “You two want to tell me when exactly this… whatever this is started?”

Robin glanced sideways at Nyx. She didn’t flinch.

“A few days ago,” he said evenly. “But we’re still professional.”

Dinah studied them both. Her silence dragged, not accusatory—just precise.

“I don’t care what you do off-duty,” she said at last. “But when you’re in the field or in this room, you are teammates first. As long as you don’t let it cloud your judgment when someone’s life is on the line. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” they chorused.

Her gaze lingered a beat longer, then softened.

“You two work well together,” she admitted. “But tread carefully. Emotions can make you stronger, but they can also be your downfall. Don’t let them get in the way of the mission.”

Nyx nodded. “We won’t.” 

Robin added, “We take the mission seriously. Always.”

Dinah smirked just a little. “Good. Now go get water. Dinah gave a short nod, then waved them off. “And for the love of God, try to keep the heart eyes to a minimum during training.”

As she turned back to the group, Nyx nudged Robin with her elbow.

“Heart eyes,” she repeated with a scoff.

Robin’s grin returned. “You were looking at me like I hung the stars.”

“In your dreams.” Nyx snorted and rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. He leaned in slightly.

“Let me win next time?”

“Not a chance.”

They walked back to the others side by side, still panting, still flushed, still a little breathless from more than just the fight. Shadows licked lazily at Nyx’s boots, curling like satisfied cats. Robin’s fingers brushed hers as they moved.

Not perfect. Not simple. But something solid was forming between the bruises and banter, the breathless hits and laughter.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The lounge was alive with chatter and the clatter of plates as the team filtered in for lunch. M’gann, ever the hostess, had prepared a buffet of options—pasta, sandwiches, salads, and a few alien-inspired delicacies she’d attempted from memory. Wally was already halfway through a plate piled high with everything, as Connor silently reached for a protein shake and a stack of chicken wings. Artemis was sitting cross-legged on a bench, scrolling on her phone, while Zatanna picked at a fruit salad, still visibly subdued.

Nyx and Robin arrived together, both slightly flushed from their earlier sparring session under Black Canary’s watchful eye. Nyx had her hair tied back in a loose braid, a few strands stuck to her cheek with sweat, and Robin was still in his training gear, his gloves stuffed in his back pocket.

“You two didn’t hold back,” Artemis commented, eyeing them as they grabbed trays and sat opposite her.

“Didn’t have to,” Nyx smirked, stabbing at her salad. “Canary said we should treat it like any other session.”

“Right,” Wally drawled around a mouthful of pasta. “Any other session with extra banter, suspicious amounts of ‘accidental’ hand contact, and prolonged eye contact.”

Robin raised an eyebrow. “You make it sound like a rom-com.”

“You say that like it wasn’t.” Artemis grinned.

“I thought it was adorable,” M’gann chimed in, floating over with a tray in hand. “You two really move in sync now. It’s like you can predict each other’s next step.”

“Training,” Robin said quickly. “Takes time.”

“Mm-hm,” Wally hummed, making kissy noises. “Sure. Training.”

Zatanna chuckled softly for the first time that day. “I think it’s sweet. I mean, if we’re risking our lives every week, a little love isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

Nyx gave her a grateful look, surprised and touched by the comment. Robin, meanwhile, shot Wally a warning glare that only made Wally grin wider.

“Black Canary noticed it, too,” Kaldur said as he sat down with his tray. The table fell quiet for a beat. “The way you both watched each other’s footing, adjusted your stance around one another—she called it an ‘unspoken understanding.’”

Nyx blinked, her cheeks heating.

“She didn’t seem disapproving,” Kaldur added. “Just… observant.”

“She gave us a ten-minute debrief on how emotional proximity can improve—or damage—tactical decisions in combat,” Robin said, nudging Nyx lightly with his shoulder. “I think we passed the test. Barely.”

“I thought it was kinda beautiful,” M’gann said with a gentle smile. “I mean, look at you. You’re closer. Stronger. I can feel it.”

Nyx looked down at her tray, stirring her fork through the salad, the warmth in her chest making it hard to speak. Robin slipped his hand under the table, brushing his fingers lightly against hers. She didn’t look at him, but she didn’t pull away either.

“Just don’t get too coupley on missions,” Artemis teased, tossing a grape at them. “No dramatic ‘don’t die on me’ speeches while the rest of us are getting pummelled.”

“Noted,” Robin replied dryly, catching the grape in midair and popping it into his mouth.

“Anyway,” Wally said, finishing the last of his food and leaning back, “who wants to hit the arcade later? I need redemption after last time.”

“You just want to play dance-off again so you can challenge Connor,” Nyx said.

“No,” Wally grinned. “I want to play so I can finally beat you. ”

Robin groaned. “Don’t encourage her, she’s insufferable when she wins.”

“Good,” Nyx said with a wicked grin. “Because I’m not planning to lose.”

And with that, the tension around the table dissolved into familiar laughter and teasing. Their world was full of danger, secrets, and shadowy enemies—but here, in this moment, they were just teenagers having lunch, finding lightness in each other’s company. 

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The sun had long since slipped behind the jagged ridge of Mount Justice, leaving the cave bathed in a dusky blue twilight. Shadows clung to the rock-hewn walls, stretching like ink stains across the floor as the last vestiges of natural light faded. Overhead, the cave’s ambient lighting hummed quietly, casting a muted glow across the corridor—soft enough to lull, but bright enough to navigate. Most of the team had scattered to their quarters or the lounge, the earlier din of laughter, footsteps, and clashing training sticks having ebbed into a gentle, companionable silence.

Then the Zeta Tube activated with a mechanical hiss and an electric flare of light.

[Recognised: Batman, 02.]

The shadows seemed to deepen in reverence as the Dark Knight emerged from the platform, cape sweeping around him like the unfurling wings of a crow. His boots made no more sound than a whisper on stone, but their weight was felt all the same—every step carrying that unmistakable gravity only he possessed. Even Superboy, still methodically striking a heavy bag in the far training corner, paused mid-swing to glance up and nod in quiet acknowledgement.

Near the central console, Nyx and Robin sat half-sprawled in their chairs within the conference nook, cooling down after a long session. They were still in their dark workout gear, flushed with exertion, sipping from water bottles as they flipped through mission footage on a glowing holo-display. They straightened immediately when they heard the familiar cadence of Batman’s voice.

“Nyx. Robin.”

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

Robin sat upright at once, his posture crisp. “Yes, sir.”

Nyx instinctively clasped her hands behind her back. The motion was subtle, but it lent her an almost soldierly bearing. “Is everything all right?”

“I’d like to speak with the both of you,” Batman said, nodding once toward the briefing room.

Neither argued. They fell into step beside him, side by side, their earlier comfort shifting into something tauter. As the doors sealed shut behind them, the cave seemed to exhale in their absence.

Batman turned to face them in the quiet. Even without visible expression, the weight of his gaze was palpable beneath the cowl. “I’ve been briefed by Black Canary.”

Nyx felt it first in her stomach—a knot tightening. Robin's shoulders subtly tensed beside her.

“She observed your last sparring session. And the… dynamic between you two.”

There was no accusation in his voice. Just clinical observation. Neutral. Controlled.

“I assume the team has also… noticed?” His eyes flicked to Robin.

Robin shifted, just barely. “They might’ve, uh… picked up on it.”

Nyx gave the barest shrug, her voice soft but steady. “We told them.”

Batman studied them both in silence, reading them like open case files. “I’m not here to criticise. But I am here to remind you, personal entanglements on the field come with risk. Emotional compromise can be deadly. Not just for you, but for the people depending on you.”

Nyx nodded. “We’re aware. We’ll be careful.”

Robin echoed her. “We’ve talked about it. We’re taking it slow. It’s not going to interfere with anything.”

Another long pause. Then Batman’s gaze turned to Nyx alone.

“I’d like a moment with Robin.”

Nyx looked between them, hesitation flickering across her face, but she nodded. “Of course.”

She slipped through the door with barely a sound, her exit shadow-swift. The room felt colder with her gone.

Silence settled again, heavier now.

“You’re not just my protégé,” Batman said, voice lower. “You’re my son .”

Robin didn’t flinch, but something behind the mask shifted—like armour softening. “I know.”

“I’ve given you space to figure things out on your own. Tried not to... interfere.” There was a weight to his words now. Something rarely heard. Vulnerability. “But this is new. It’s serious.”

Robin exhaled, slow and steady, fingers tightening briefly at his sides. “Yeah. It is. She means a lot to me.”

Batman studied him. “You trust her.”

“With everything.”

Another second passed.

“Do you love her?”

Robin blinked. Once. “I… I don’t know. Maybe? I think I could. She makes me feel like I’m not pretending all the time. Like I’m me.”

Batman didn’t speak at first. But his shoulders seemed to ease just slightly.

“There’s strength in that,” he admitted. “But it’s a double-edged sword. If something happens to her—” 

“It won’t,” Robin interrupted, his voice tight. 

Batman’s gaze sharpened. “ If something happens to her... You have to be prepared to make the right decision. Not the emotional one.” 

Robin lowered his eyes for a beat, then looked up. “I’ve made plenty of those already. But I’d never put her at risk. Or the mission. You know that.” 

Batman nodded once. “I do. And I’m trusting you to remember that. You’ve always been capable, Dick. But caring for someone adds another layer. I just need to know you’re ready for it.” 

Robin swallowed hard, his voice quiet when he spoke. “I think I am.” 

Another pause. Then, gently, Batman placed a hand on Robin’s shoulder. “Good. Just don’t forget who you are. Or what we stand for.”

Robin’s voice softened. “I won’t. Thanks, Bruce.”

Batman stepped back. “Bring her in. Let’s finish this.”

Robin stepped out into the hallway, spotting Nyx exactly where he expected her: leaning against the corridor wall, arms crossed, one boot resting against the opposite ankle.

“He didn’t kill me,” he said with a crooked half-smile.

Nyx tilted her head. “What’d he say?”

“That he trusts us. As long as we trust each other.”

A rare smile tugged at her mouth. “We made it through the Bat Gauntlet, then.”

He reached out, took her hand without ceremony. “It’s everything.”

Together, they stepped back into the room, and Batman was waiting, his silhouette stark against the briefing monitor’s glow.

“I’ve reviewed footage from your last two sparring sessions,” he began. His voice echoed faintly in the high ceiling, cool and measured. “Your coordination has improved. You’re adapting to each other’s movements. Anticipating. That’s commendable.”

“Thanks,” Robin said, careful to keep the grin out of his tone.

Batman gave a brief nod, then continued. “However… I’ve also reviewed your body language. Your positioning. Your—” he paused, as though grappling with an unfamiliar script, “—proximity.”

Nyx went rigid. “It won’t affect the mission,” she said quickly.

“That’s yet to be determined,” Batman replied evenly. “My question is simple. Are you being safe?”

Nyx blinked. “Safe?”

Robin stiffened beside her. “Define safe, please.”

Batman tilted his head slightly. “Emotionally. Strategically. Physically. Teenagers are... impulsive .”

Nyx’s mouth opened. Then closed again. Her ears turned pink.

Robin coughed into his glove. “We’re being safe.”

“Super safe,” Nyx added, a little too fast, voice climbing half an octave. “We haven’t done anything crazy.”

Batman continued, tone as flat as ever. “You’re both highly trained. But emotional entanglement can cloud judge—”

[Recognised: Green Arrow, 08.]

Green Arrow emerged with a flourish, tugging down his hood and flashing a grin. “There they are! The new dynamic duo.”

Nyx made a sound that was half groan, half wheeze. Robin visibly sank into himself. Green Arrow strode in like he owned the place. “Black Canary filled me in. Sparring looked intense. Real battlefield synergy. Very romantic .”

“Oh my God,” Nyx whispered.

“Can we not–” Robin muttered.

“And I just want to say,” Green Arrow continued, ignoring them completely, “congratulations. It’s nice seeing kids finding happiness while juggling rooftop chases and secret identities. Balancing crimefighting and teen hormones? Legendary stuff.” 

“Does everyone know?” Nyx finally blurted, horrified. “Is there like… a League-wide memo?” 

Batman raised an eyebrow. “No. But those paying attention have… noticed.” 

Nyx looked like she wanted to phase into the wall. “Please tell me the Flash doesn’t know.” 

Green Arrow winced. “Wally talks in his sleep.” 

“Brilliant,” Robin muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Nyx turned to Batman, all remaining dignity abandoned. “Bruce. Please. Can you not make this more mortifying than it already is?” 

Batman was silent for a moment. Then, in the driest voice imaginable: “Alright.” 

“Ah, young love. It’s a dangerous game.” 

Batman didn’t respond. But even through the cowl… There may have been the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth. 

Robin and Nyx shared a glance. 

There was no escaping this.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Batman stood behind Green Arrow, silent as ever, a monolith of shadow and purpose. His arms were folded across his chest, the lines of his cape falling like sculpted obsidian. The glow of the surveillance monitor cast a faint blue hue over his cowl, sharpening the already stark angles of his face.

On the screen, the image was frozen—Nyx mid-sweep, her movements a blur of efficiency and intent. Robin lay pinned beneath her, one arm caught above his head, the other bracing lightly against her side. Their eyes were locked. Not just in calculation or tactical read. There was something deeper. Something unspoken. The look between them was electric—held breath and hesitant longing, cloaked in the illusion of a spar.

“She’s getting better,” Green Arrow said at last, breaking the silence. His voice was lower now, touched with something between respect and quiet concern. He gestured to the screen. “Sharper. More precise. She’s grown since then.”

Batman didn’t move. His gaze never left the frozen frame. “They both have.”

The quiet that followed carried a weight of its own.

Green Arrow glanced sidelong at him, the lines around his eyes deepening. “Dinah told me what she saw. During sparring. Said it wasn’t just teamwork.”

Batman’s jaw clenched slightly. “It wasn’t.”

“And you’re okay with that?” Oliver’s tone was light, but edged. “Your protégés getting close like that? History tends to repeat itself… remember Talia Al– nevermind.”

A long beat passed.

Batman’s eyes remained on the screen. “Robin knows the line. So does she.”

Oliver gave a quiet scoff, not unkind. “They’re teenagers, Bruce. They don’t see lines. They see each other. Feelings. Endorphins. Adrenaline. Long nights patching each other up in medbay. Near-misses that feel like war and prayers in motion.” He let the thought linger. “You know how that story ends.”

Batman’s voice, when it came, was soft. Steady. “I do.”

“And?” Oliver pushed, his voice gentler now.

“I trust them,” Batman said simply.

That made Oliver turn. His expression shifted—not incredulous, exactly. But surprised.

“That’s not something you say lightly.”

“I’m not saying it lightly.”

The silence that settled after was thicker than before. Not uncomfortable—but loaded. A silence born of shared battles, of pain masked by mission, of decades spent building walls high enough to keep the world out—and each other barely in.

Oliver watched the screen for a moment longer. “She’s carrying a lot. Arabella.” His voice was lower now. “You can see it in the way she moves. Controlled. Calculated. Like someone who's always bracing for the worst. There’s a darkness in her I haven’t seen since…” He trailed off. “Well. Since you.”

Batman’s gaze didn’t shift. “She’s not me.”

“No,” Green Arrow said. “But she’s not far off.”

Another pause. A flicker of unease in the air.

“Do you think Dick knows?” Oliver asked, his voice quiet.

Bruce didn’t need clarification. “Not yet. But he’s close.”

“And when he finds out?”

Batman finally turned away from the screen, his cowl casting deeper shadows over his expression. His answer was quiet, almost lost in the hum of the surveillance equipment. “Then we see if what they have is real.”

Oliver exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “You know,” he said, almost to himself, “I never thought I’d be worried about your kid’s heart getting broken.”

Batman’s mouth twitched—just once. A flicker of something that wasn’t quite a smile, but not far from it. “He can handle himself.”

Oliver nodded slowly. Then his eyes dropped down to the lower monitor, which showed the lounge through the security feed. The kids were gathered around the table, laughing over something M’gann had said. Robin sat beside Nyx, their shoulders brushing. He leaned into her slightly, unconsciously. She elbowed him—gentle, playful. They both smiled.

It wasn’t the look of a mission partner.

It was something warmer. Something messier. Something real.

“Yeah,” Green Arrow murmured, gaze thoughtful. “But can she?”

Batman didn’t answer.

Because for all his foresight, for all his planning and control… even he didn’t know the answer to that.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

After dinner, the Cave had settled into that familiar lull—soft, satisfied, and lazy. The air was warm with leftover scents of food and the gentle hum of conversation. The team had drifted into their usual lounging spots, the lounge now more battlefield of digestion than mission planning.

Connor sprawled flat on the floor, arms folded beneath his head, his legs outstretched and unmoving except for the occasional twitch of contentment. His head rested against the base of the sofa like a particularly grumpy guard dog. M’gann sat behind Zatanna on the carpet, fingers deftly braiding her hair, humming softly as strands of midnight curled between her fingers. Zatanna, for her part, looked blissful, her eyes half-lidded in quiet approval.

Artemis was propped sideways in one of the beanbags, remote in hand, listlessly flicking through the channels on the oversized monitor. The light from the screen flickered across her features—sharp cheekbones, one raised brow, utterly unimpressed by the endless stream of late-night programming.

Wally had contorted himself across two beanbags like a gangly cat, upside down with his feet thrown over one armrest and his head nearly brushing the floor. His hands fidgeted with invisible energy, drumming against his stomach as he muttered commentary to no one in particular.

Kaldur, ever composed, sat cross-legged in one of the armchairs. Even in relaxation, his back was straight, his shoulders square. Somehow, he managed to look regal next to the utter chaos around him.

On the sofa, tucked together like a secret they hadn’t quite finished telling, Nyx and Robin sat close—too close. Her leg brushed his every few seconds, and his hand rested behind her shoulders with all the practised nonchalance of someone pretending not to notice how flushed his ears had gone. They were whispering, heads tilted in toward each other, faces lit with the kind of laughter that held just a touch too much softness.

Artemis noticed first.

She pointed a chip-crumbed finger at them without looking up from the screen. “Alright. Spill. You’ve both been giggling like idiots since you disappeared after lunch.”

Wally sprang upright like a dog hearing the word ‘walk.’ “If it’s romantic, I want details. If it’s embarrassing, I want all the details.”

Robin smirked and slid down on the sofa with an exaggerated sigh, his arm still draped lazily over the back. “Batman called us in for a meeting.”

“And Green Arrow was there too,” Nyx added, folding her legs beneath her and nudging his knee with hers.

“Oh no,” Artemis said immediately. “That already sounds like the start of a horror story.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Robin insisted, though he didn’t sound remotely convincing.

Nyx gave him a flat look. “You’re lying. It was that bad.”

Zatanna perked up, braid half-finished. “What happened?”

Robin cleared his throat dramatically and dropped into a gravelly Batman impression. “‘Your relationship has not gone unnoticed.’” He paused for effect. “Batman actually said that. With a straight face.”

Laughter exploded across the room like someone had hit a detonator. Wally practically doubled over, wheezing like he’d run a marathon. Artemis slapped a hand against her forehead.

“No way. You’re joking,” Wally gasped.

“He even did the stare,” Nyx said, widening her eyes in mock horror. “You know the one.”

“The one that feels like your soul’s being audited?” Artemis asked, deadpan.

“That’s the one.”

“And Green Arrow?” Kaldur asked, blinking slowly, curious.

Robin pressed his lips together like he was holding back a cackle. “He looked like he was seconds from a full emotional collapse.”

“They thought we were…” Nyx hesitated, fighting back a smile. “Fooling around.”

“Which we kind of are,” Robin added, earning a jab to the ribs from her elbow.

“Not the point,” Artemis muttered, glaring like a disapproving sister.

“What did they say?” M’gann asked eagerly, her smile bright with mischief.

“Oh, you know,” Nyx said sweetly, voice dripping with sarcasm. “The usual. That we’re young, responsible for team cohesion , under a microscope . Oh—and Batman said, and I quote, ‘romantic entanglements compromise mission clarity.’ ”

“That sounds like it came from a manual,” Wally snorted.

“Oh, it gets better,” Robin said, practically glowing now. “Then Green Arrow launched into this awkward monologue about ‘balancing hormones and heroism.’ I thought Batman might disintegrate on the spot.”

Nyx was clutching a throw pillow to her chest, laughing so hard her eyes watered. “I swear, at one point, Batman sighed. Like—a soul-crushed sigh. Like he gave up.”

Zatanna wiped at her eyes, still grinning. “So that was the talk ?”

Robin held up a finger. “No, then came the rules. ‘No sneaking into each other’s rooms. No distractions during mission briefings. Absolutely no kissing mid-battle.’”

Artemis groaned and buried her face in a cushion. “Please tell me they didn’t actually say that.”

“I’m sorry,” Wally wheezed. “No kissing mid-battle? What did they think you’d do—start making out in the middle of a hostage situation?”

“You joke,” Nyx said, voice muffled against her pillow, “but Batman literally said, ‘displays of affection mid-mission may jeopardise team morale.’”

“Oh my god,” Robin groaned. “And then Green Arrow gave us a pamphlet .”

Silence.

“A pamphlet ?” Connor asked slowly, lifting his head.

“It was titled—” Robin deadpanned, “ ‘Love in the Field: Why Tactical Romance is Never Cute.’ ”

Wally collapsed off the beanbags entirely, wheezing.

Nyx held up her hands in surrender. “We’ve officially been banned from PDA in uniform.”

Artemis arched a brow. “So, like—kissing is banned, but flirting isn’t?”

“We asked that,” Robin said. “Green Arrow called flirting a ‘grey area.’ And Batman walked away.”

“That’s a yes,” Wally snorted.

“I am never getting over this,” M’gann giggled. “This is better than any soap opera.”

“We should frame the pamphlet,” Zatanna declared. “Put it on the mission board. Maybe bronze it.”

Robin flopped his head back with an exaggerated groan. “I’m still not over the phrase tactical romance .”

“Tactical Romance is your team name now,” Artemis said firmly. “I’m making patches.”

“You’re all the worst,” Nyx muttered, face flushed as she curled into Robin’s side.

“Yeah,” Robin murmured, his arm tightening slightly around her. “But they’re our worst.”

And in the middle of all the laughter, the pillows and the teasing, the half-eaten popcorn and the pamphlet that would probably haunt them forever, Nyx smiled.

Because even with rules and Bat-stares and public humiliation via Green Arrow, even with their fragile something on constant display… she had this. She had him. And in this strange, messy, ridiculous family they’d built—

It felt worth every second.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Most of the boys had gone off to either nap, train, or play video games, leaving the lounge unusually quiet. Nyx, M’gann, Artemis, and Zatanna had gathered in the cosy corner —M’gann had lit one of her calming lavender-scented candles she had bought when they went to the mall, and Artemis had sprawled over one of the oversized beanbags. Zatanna sat curled up cross-legged on the sofa with a hot chocolate, her expression softer than it had been since her father’s sacrifice.

Nyx had her legs tucked beneath her as she sat on the floor, back against the sofa, her sunglasses perched on her nose. She’d been quiet for a while, stirring the straw of her milk without sipping it. The girls gave her space, knowing she was chewing on something.

Finally, she broke the silence.

“How did you do it?” Nyx asked softly, looking up at M’gann. “You and Connor. How did you make it work? With everything we do, everything we hide. The missions, the secrets, the danger. How did you… manage?”

M’gann blinked, caught off guard, but a warm smile slowly crept onto her face. She placed her mug down and tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear.

“Well… it wasn’t easy,” she said truthfully. “At first, it was just little things. Shared glances, small comforts. But we had to make a decision—either let fear control us or trust that whatever we had was worth fighting for.”

Nyx nodded slowly, eyes flicking to Artemis and then Zatanna.

“But weren’t you scared?” she asked, more quietly now. “Scared of what it might mean if things… went wrong? Or if the team found out?”

M’gann gave her a knowing look. “Of course, I was scared. But we’re scared all the time in this line of work. We fight aliens and monsters and deal with betrayals and loss… but being with Connor? That felt like something real I could hold onto.”

“It’s not like we’ll find it that easy,” Artemis added, resting her chin on her knee. “It’s not a weakness to let someone in, Nyx. Not when it’s someone you trust.”

Nyx looked down at her hands, her thumb grazing the star charm on her necklace. “That’s just it. I do trust him. Maybe more than I’ve trusted anyone in a long time.”

Zatanna’s voice was gentle. “Then don’t talk yourself out of something good just because it’s complicated. We’re complicated. All of us. But that doesn’t mean we don’t deserve… love.”

Nyx looked at her, surprised, and Zatanna gave her a small smile. “Even me,” she added quietly, eyes flickering with pain, “after everything.”

A hush fell over the group again, heavier this time. Artemis leaned forward, her tone softer than usual.

“Does he make you feel safe?”

Nyx nodded immediately. “Yes. Always.”

“Then you’ve got something,” M’gann said, picking up her mug again. “And if he looks at you the way he did during that spar this morning? Then he’s already halfway gone.”

Nyx blinked. “What?”

“Oh, come on,” Artemis rolled her eyes fondly. “He looked like you’d hung the moon. I half expected him to propose mid-round.”

That earned a laugh from all of them, including Nyx, who pressed her face into her hands, her shoulders shaking.

“I’m so doomed,” she muttered.

“No,” M’gann said firmly. “You’re just finally letting yourself be happy.”

The girls shared a moment of silence, the weight of their complicated lives giving way to a quiet solidarity—each of them knowing what it meant to carry masks, expectations, and secrets. And knowing how rare it was to feel something real.

In that small lounge, surrounded by girls who were also warriors and survivors, Nyx felt as though she was experiencing ‘Earth girlhood.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Arabella and Artemis were in Arabella’s room. She flicked through her book absently, her gaze trailing across the page. The corner of her mouth twitched.

Artemis, watching her, raised an eyebrow. “Okay. You’re doing that smile again.”

“What smile?” Arabella asked, trying—and failing—to sound casual.

“The one that says you’re thinking about a certain Boy Wonder and not paying attention to anything else.”

Arabella let out a breath, her smirk deepening despite herself. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not letting you get away with that.” Artemis nudged her shoulder. “Spill. All of it. How did this happen? One minute you two were pretending you could barely stand each other, then you’re all awkward, weird, tense,  and the next you’re making heart-eyes over pancakes.”

Arabella rolled her eyes, but her cheeks warmed. She rested her chin on her hand and looked down at her plate. “It… sort of happened after that mission. You know—the Klarion one.”

“How could I forget?” Artemis said, smirking.

Arabella rolled her eyes. “Yeah. That night. We were all kind of reeling, and Robin followed me back to my room to check on me after I hit my head during the fight.”

“Oh,” Artemis said, leaning in like this was already her new favourite story.

Arabella bit her lip, her voice quieter. “It was… nice. Soft. He asked if I was okay. I said I was. He kissed my forehead.”

Artemis’s brows lifted.

“And I—I just blurted it out. That I wanted him. That I wanted this, whatever it is between us. I didn’t really plan it, it just came out.”

“And what did he say?” Artemis asked.

Arabella laughed softly. “He panicked for a second. Then, when I clarified, he just smiled. And kissed me.”

Artemis grinned. “About time.”

“We ended up talking, kissing a bit more. It was kind of awkward at first—he kept checking if I was sure about everything. He was so sweet. Gentle.” Arabella’s voice grew fond, distant in memory. “It was my first proper make-out. I was nervous. But he made me feel safe.”

Artemis rested her chin in her hand, watching Arabella with a little smile. “Wow.”

“I know.” Arabella shook her head, then laughed under her breath. “And, of course, he made a joke about how he was flattered to be my first. The ego on that boy.”

“That boy is obsessed with you,” Artemis said matter-of-factly.

Arabella gave a quiet laugh, her voice dipping into something more uncertain. “It’s strange. We don’t even know each other’s names, not really. But sometimes it feels like we know each other better than anyone else.”

Artemis nodded. “That’s because you see each other without all the extra stuff. No family names. No reputations. Just the real you.”

There was a beat of quiet as Arabella took a bite, then poked at her pasta again.

“He makes me feel… normal,” she admitted. “Like I’m not just Lex Luthor’s daughter or Batman’s secret. Like I’m just… a girl who likes a boy.”

“You deserve that,” Artemis said softly. “You both do.”

Arabella looked up, eyes glossy. “Thanks.”

“Now tell me… who made the first move?” Artemis grinned again.

Arabella gave her a dry look. “I already told you, it was me.”

“Oh, I know. I just love hearing it.”

Arabella rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. “We promised to take it slow. Figure out what this really is before… anything.”

“Good.” Artemis nodded. “That’s the smart way. But also, if he hurts you, I will personally shove a batarang somewhere very uncomfortable.”

Arabella burst out laughing. “I’ll let him know.”

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The afternoon light streamed lazily through the high windows of the lounge, casting golden patterns across the sleek furniture. Wally was lounging across one of the couches, boots kicked off, head dangling upside down over the side as he tossed a tennis ball into the air repeatedly. Robin was sat nearby, legs crossed on the armchair opposite, idly spinning one of his escrima sticks between his fingers.

“So,” Wally began casually, tossing the ball one-handed. “You and Nyx, huh?”

Robin didn’t answer straightaway. He flicked his escrima stick into the air, caught it neatly, then set it aside. “Yeah,” he said finally, his voice lower than usual.

Wally rolled back into a sitting position, eyebrows lifting. “ Yeah? That’s all I get?”

Robin glanced at him, the edge of a smirk twitching at his lips. “What do you want, a play-by-play?”

“Yes. Actually, yes. I demand it. I’ve earned it.”

Robin sighed, leaning back in his seat. “It wasn’t planned. It just… happened.”

Wally narrowed his eyes. “So what you’re saying is you accidentally fell mouth-first onto the mysterious shadow girl you bicker with daily?”

Robin gave him a dry look. “We were talking. After everything with Klarion. The whole world splitting in two, Zatanna putting on the Helmet, her dad taking her place... it messed with all of us.”

Wally nodded, more seriously now.

“She took a hit during the fight,” Robin continued, rubbing the back of his neck. “Harder than she let on. And when we got back, she was just… quiet. Closed off. I went to check on her.”

“And?” Wally leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“And we talked,” Robin said simply. “For real. Like—not the usual sarcasm, not the flirty teasing. Actual honesty. She told me about her dad. How she still loves him, despite everything.”

“Sounds heavy.”

“It was.” He paused. “But then it wasn’t. Next thing I know, she says she wants this. Wants me. And I swear, I nearly forgot how to breathe.”

Wally’s eyebrows shot up. “She said that? Just like that?”

Robin smiled to himself. “Yeah.”

“Wow.” Wally blinked. “That’s actually… kind of beautiful, man.”

Robin looked at him, a touch of surprise in his expression. “Didn’t think you’d say that.”

“Please, I might be the class clown, but I’ve got a heart. Somewhere. Deep down.” Wally thumped his chest with exaggerated emotion.

Robin snorted. “Well, we didn’t plan for it to get that intense. But it was her first real make-out, and—”

“Wait, what?! ” Wally sat bolt upright, eyes wide. “You’re telling me you were her first proper kiss? ”

“I didn’t say that,” Robin said quickly. “I said make out. There’s a difference.”

Wally’s jaw dropped. “So she just straddled you in bed and made out with you, and now you’re like… boyfriend and girlfriend?”

Robin hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I’m hers. She’s mine. We’re just… figuring it out.”

Wally grinned, then leaned back with a long whistle. “Man. I know Batman’s loving this.”

Robin rolled his eyes. “I’m afraid he does. Black Canary, too.”

“She’s definitely clocked it,” Wally laughed. “She gave you two that whole ‘emotional proximity’ talk like it was written for newlyweds.”

Robin chuckled softly, but then grew thoughtful. “It’s weird, though. I still don’t know who she is.”

Wally blinked. “You mean— you don’t know her name? ”

“Nope. And she doesn’t know mine.”

Wally looked utterly baffled. “You’re making out, cuddling, potentially falling for each other—and you don’t even know her real name?”

Robin shrugged. “We agreed. When we’re ready.”

“That is the most you thing I’ve ever heard,” Wally muttered. “So what happens next?”

Robin glanced toward the hallway where Nyx’s room was. A soft, barely-there smile curved his lips.

“Next?” he echoed. “We wait. We figure it out. And we trust each other enough to get there when we’re ready.”

Wally nodded slowly, tossing the tennis ball back into the air. “Just don’t do it on my bed next time.”

Robin whipped his escrima stick at Wally’s shoulder. “We won’t!”

“Sure, sure. You’ll just read Little Women, I bet.”

“Shut up.” But Robin was laughing now, and somehow, that made everything feel just a little bit lighter.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The hum of the base quietened as the day began to wind down, the team having drifted off to their rooms or scattered to the training areas for individual cooldowns. Nyx, hair now loose from her braid, was curled on the edge of Robin’s bed, legs crossed beneath her. The lamp in the corner cast a soft amber glow over the navy duvet and muted walls, giving the room a warm, lived-in feel despite its usual minimalist layout.

Robin sat on the floor beside his low bookshelf, flicking through a thick, well-worn sketchbook. His fingers were slightly smudged with graphite, something Nyx had come to realise was a tell-tale sign of his downtime. His sunglasses were on, as always, but somehow, she could still read the nerves in the slope of his shoulders.

“You okay down there?” she asked gently, stretching her legs and leaning forward.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Just… figuring out if I want to show you something or not.”

Nyx tilted her head. “Now you have to. You can’t say something like that and expect me not to be curious.”

He let out a soft, nervous laugh and stood up, sketchbook in hand. He didn’t sit beside her, not right away. He handed the book over instead, hovering awkwardly.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to sit?”

“I will,” he mumbled. “Just… look at the first few pages.”

Nyx opened the cover, and her breath caught.

There, in carefully shaded pencil lines, was her. Several sketches of her in different poses—some mid-action, with shadows whipping around her like smoke; others more still and quiet, like the way she stood with her arms crossed, or the way she tilted her head in thought. One sketch, near the top corner of a page, was just her silhouette outlined against what looked like a Zeta Tube’s glow.

“These… are me,” she said, surprised.

He rubbed the back of his neck, finally sitting beside her. “Yeah.”

“They’re beautiful,” she whispered. “When did you draw these?”

“When you first joined the team,” Robin admitted, voice lower than usual. “You were… different. I mean, mysterious, obviously. But strong. Quiet. Beautiful. I wanted to figure you out. And when I couldn’t, I just… drew you instead.”

Nyx looked up from the sketchbook, eyes searching his behind their sunglasses. “You really captured me. Like— me. Not just what I look like.”

Robin gave a small, sheepish shrug. “I guess I notice things. The way you stand, like you’re ready to disappear. The way your shadows always move, even when you don’t. How your hair always falls over your mask when you’re tired. I didn’t mean for it to be weird.”

“It’s not,” she said quickly. “It’s not weird. It’s… kind of the most thoughtful thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

Robin didn’t reply right away. He reached out, brushing his knuckles against her hand where it rested on the sketchbook. “I wasn’t sure if I should show you. I didn’t want to cross any lines.”

She turned her palm to meet his fingers, holding them softly. “You didn’t. This means a lot, actually.”

There was a beat of silence, comfortable now.

“You’re talented,” she said, flipping another page. “You should do more of this. Maybe share it someday.”

Robin scoffed. “Yeah, because ‘vigilante by night, artist by day’ doesn’t totally ruin my intimidating rep.”

Nyx smiled and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I don’t know. There’s something very you about both.”

Chapter Text

Mount Justice

November 10th – 09:32 EST

Arabella grunted, her shadows lashing violently against the reinforced wall, cutting deep into the composite plating. Her breath hitched in her throat, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven rhythm. Sweat clung to the back of her neck and soaked through the waistband of her training leggings. She’d long since lost track of time, her muscles burned, her throat was dry, and her legs trembled with the strain.

“Again, Arabella,” Black Canary said calmly from behind her.

She always used her name in private sessions like this, no code names, no masks. Just the girl behind the persona. It made everything feel a little more raw, more personal.

Arabella gritted her teeth, forcing her aching limbs to obey. She raised her arms again, fingers splayed as a thick tendril of shadow slashed forward, striking the wall with a heavy crack. A fine dust and paint mist peeled away from the wall’s surface.

“Again,” came Canary’s voice, firm but not unkind.

Arabella turned and sliced again. Her control was faltering; she could feel the edges of her power fraying, slipping from her grasp like water through fingers. The shadows wavered for a moment before striking true.

“Again.”

She growled under her breath and obeyed, the motion more instinctual than deliberate now. Another cut. Her knees almost gave way beneath her. Sweat stung her eyes, and she had to swipe at her face.

“Again.”

Arabella flung the shadow forward with everything she had, the force of the strike reverberating through her bones. She finally collapsed forward, catching herself with her hands on her knees, and her breaths came in shuddering gasps.

“Good,” Black Canary said, finally relenting. “Your stamina’s improved. Significantly, actually. Your powers are holding stronger under duress. That's exactly what I needed to see.”

Arabella nodded, too exhausted to reply right away.

“Get some water,” Dinah added, grabbing a towel from the bench and tossing it over. “You’ll be sparring with Kaldur next.”

Arabella let out a loud, dramatic groan, wiping her forehead as she walked toward the water cooler.

“He’s going to wipe the floor with me,” she mumbled. “Again.”

Dinah laughed, arms folded across her chest as she leaned casually against the wall. “Would you rather I call Robin in? Let you flirt your way through a win?”

Arabella shot her a glare, though there was no real heat in it. “Unfair. Robin’s distracted by me, that’s not my fault.”

“Exactly,” Dinah smirked. “Arabella, I need you to be challenged. If you’re always winning, especially by default, you’re going to start slacking. Growth doesn’t come from ease.”

Arabella exhaled sharply through her nose and tipped back her water bottle, swallowing a mouthful like it might fortify her nerves. The metallic tang of adrenaline still lingered at the back of her tongue from the last round.

“Kaldur always wins,” she muttered, wiping her mouth with the back of her glove.

Across the mat, Dinah Lance raised a perfectly arched brow, her voice dry with challenge. “Kaldur doesn’t beat me. If you’d rather spar with me instead, just say the word.”

Arabella paused mid-sip, bottle halfway to her lips again. The silence stretched for a breath too long.

“…I’ll take Kaldur,” she said finally, with no small amount of caution.

Dinah smirked, tossing a pair of sparring gloves toward her with a flick of the wrist that felt more like a warning than a gesture of goodwill. She slid her sunglasses into place like a queen taking her seat to spectate a gladiator match.

“That’s what I thought.”

Arabella barely had time to sigh again and put her sunglasses on before the doors to the training room hissed open.

Kaldur stepped in with the ease of a seasoned warrior, calm radiating from every movement like a tide at rest. His presence grounded the room without effort, barefoot on the mat, shoulders squared, expression composed but warm.

“Are you ready?” he asked, voice low and measured, the faintest curve of a smile at the corner of his mouth. There was something unreadable in his gaze, respect, maybe, or gentle amusement.

Arabella tightened the velcro on her gloves with a resigned grunt, rolling out her neck as if preparing for war. “No. But let’s do this anyway.”

From the sidelines, Dinah chuckled, arms folded, already settling in like this was her Saturday matinee.

“That’s the spirit.”

Arabella stepped onto the mat, boots light, spine straightening despite herself. She met Kaldur’s steady gaze and lifted her hands into a guard position. She was going to lose, again, but if she was going down, it would be on her feet.

With style.

And maybe only some bruising.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The floor was quiet, save for the steady hum of the lights above and the soft scuff of bare feet on the mat.

Kaldur stood tall, composed, his expression unreadable as always. His stance was firm but fluid, grounded like the ocean he wielded. Nyx, by contrast, was coiled energy. Her eyes were sharp behind her sunglasses, her shadowmancy carefully tucked away—this was a no-powers spar, and she was ready to prove herself with nothing but skill and sheer grit.

[Training Match: Kaldur’ahm vs Nyx. Begin.]

Nyx struck first. She launched forward in a blur, a flurry of swift, sharp attacks—a jab to the ribs, a feint to the left, a high kick aimed at Kaldur’s shoulder. He blocked each one with maddening ease, his arms like stone, unmoved. He barely flinched, absorbing her blows like crashing waves against rock.

“Tch,” Nyx muttered, tumbling into a back handspring to create distance. She barely had time to land before Kaldur was on her—his counter was fast and clean, a punch aimed at her midsection. She twisted, just barely avoiding it, but the force of his movement threw off her balance.

He was relentless. He followed her footwork, matching her speed with strength, anticipating her next moves with a clarity that only came from someone who had sparred across half the world– or seas.

She darted in again, her body low, spinning on her heel for a sweep aimed at his legs. Kaldur leapt, avoiding it, and landed with a calculated thud, immediately swinging an elbow towards her jaw. She ducked beneath it, tumbling to the side and using the momentum to roll across the mat.

“Nyx, stay focused!” Canary called, her tone sharp.

Nyx wiped her brow with the back of her hand, already panting, but her eyes remained locked on her opponent. She was used to fast, graceful duels—precise, controlled. Fencing had trained her to think several moves ahead, to glide rather than charge. But Kaldur? Kaldur was a storm. Calm, composed, but when he moved, it was with the force of a tidal wave.

She lunged again—high strike, low jab, a spinning kick. He blocked the first, parried the second, and caught the third. Before she could pull away, his palm connected with her shoulder, sending her stumbling back.

“Come on,” she hissed under her breath, her chest heaving.

She dashed forward with a burst of speed, feinting left and landing a rare strike to his side. He grunted, nodding slightly as if to acknowledge her success, but retaliated immediately with a series of punishing blows that forced her back. She blocked the first, ducked the second, but the third landed—a solid punch to her cheek.

She stumbled, eyes blinking as her breath caught in her throat. She spat, tasting blood.

Kaldur didn’t let up.

The fight continued like a storm refusing to pass—fast and ferocious, draining and brutal. Nyx’s footwork was lightning-fast; she danced just out of reach, countered with precision, but Kaldur adapted quickly. His body shifted styles seamlessly—one moment Muay Thai, the next a disciplined martial arts form rooted in Atlantean combat. It was like trying to catch water with bare hands. 

It was exhausting.

Her vision blurred slightly from exertion. She jumped back, then lunged forward again, spinning to strike. But Kaldur ducked, sweeping her leg out from beneath her. She hit the mat hard, breath whooshing out of her lungs.

Before she could rise, he was already over her, hand extended.

She took it, gritting her teeth. “Damn it.”

“You fought well,” Kaldur said, his voice calm but sincere. “Your footwork has improved.”

“Still can’t beat you, though.” She offered a breathless smile, accepting defeat with grace.

“You will, one day.” He inclined his head. “Today simply wasn’t that day.”

She chuckled as he helped her to her feet. “You’re really annoyingly good at this, you know that?”

He gave the faintest of smiles. “I do.”

Black Canary stepped forward, arms folded, her sharp gaze flicking between the two figures on the mat.

“That was a solid match,” she said, her voice steady with approval. “Intense, focused. Nyx—excellent recovery after that hit. You adjusted quickly, kept your stance light. Kaldur, well done, maintaining control without leaning into brute force. That’s the balance I like to see.”

Nyx exhaled, letting the tension drain from her limbs as she stepped off the mat, her breath shallow but steady. Her muscles ached pleasantly, and sweat clung to the back of her neck. She grabbed a towel and wiped down her face, then reached for her water bottle.

Canary gave her a nod. “Good job, Nyx. That’s you done for today. Rest up, yeah? I don’t want you overexerting yourself—”

Then she added, with a knowing smirk, “—and that means try not to end up in a room alone with Robin again, at least until your heart rate slows down.”

Nyx froze mid-sip, water still in her mouth.

She choked.

A very ungraceful splutter escaped her throat as the water went down the wrong way. She turned away quickly, coughing into her sleeve. Her cheeks flushed a deep, burning red as she hastily mumbled, “Thanks,” in a hoarse whisper.

From the corner of her eye, she caught Kaldur blinking in confusion and then let out a soft chuckle.

Black Canary simply arched a brow and smirked again, clearly amused at her own observation.

Nyx didn’t wait around to hear the rest. She grabbed her things and made a beeline for the exit. The automatic doors hissed open and closed behind her, leaving a faint trail of embarrassment in her wake.

She could still hear their laughter echoing faintly through the corridor as she walked briskly toward her room, muttering under her breath.

“Brilliant. Just brilliant.”

As if the team teasing her wasn’t enough, now even Black Canary was in on it.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

There was a knock at her door.

Nyx slipped her sunglasses on with a soft sigh, pausing the footage on her laptop. The screen froze on a slow-motion shot of her taking a fall during her last spar. Her brow furrowed—she should’ve recovered faster. Should’ve anticipated Kaldur’s stance.

“Come in,” she called, still focused.

Robin stepped in, already out of his training gear and casually dressed, his hair still slightly damp from his shower. His gaze softened when he spotted her sitting cross-legged on her bed in a tank top, cotton shorts, and his jacket lazily thrown over her shoulders. Her own hair was twisted into a loose braid that trailed over her shoulder.

“How was training?” he asked, making his way over and dropping onto the bed beside her.

She didn’t look away from the screen. “Fine.”

She rewound the clip, zooming in on the angle where she’d landed off-balance. Her lips pressed into a line.

Robin glanced at the laptop. “Still analysing?”

“Of course,” she muttered. “I was slow. Sloppy. That recovery was pathetic.”

“You were exhausted,” he pointed out. “You were up with Canary at six doing cardio drills.”

“I should still be better,” she said, leaning back slightly with a frustrated sigh.

He watched her for a moment, then slowly held out his hand. She blinked at him, confused, before smirking and slipping her fingers into his.

“Uh uh,” she said, voice playful. “Canary told me not to ‘overexert myself’... and she specifically said that means trying not to end up in a room alone with Robin until my heart rate drops.”

Robin burst into laughter. “She actually said that?”

“Word for word,” she grinned.

He chuckled and tugged her gently, guiding her to sit between his legs so her back rested against his chest. She didn’t resist, still watching the screen as the footage played again.

“Look at that,” she pointed, sighing. “I totally left my left side open.”

“You’re too hard on yourself,” he murmured, arms loosely wrapping around her waist. “You’re ranked second for a reason.”

“Mm, and yet I took a jab to the face,” she grumbled.

Robin grinned. “Yeah, that was a solid hit. Kaldur’s got sneaky elbows.”

“Watch it,” she warned, though she laughed. “I’m still ranked higher than you.”

“Touché,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Though to be fair, I’ve taken fewer elbows to the face.”

She turned to face him then, straddling him comfortably. “My face is fine,” she said, tilting her head slightly so he could see. “No bruising, see?”

He ran a hand gently along her jaw, his thumb brushing beneath her eye.

“I can confirm. Still gorgeous,” he said softly.

Their eyes met. That familiar pull between them thickened the air.

Nyx raised an eyebrow, her voice low and mischievous. “You’re remembering Canary’s warning, yeah?”

Robin smirked. “She said don’t overexert. She didn’t say anything about… light exercises.”

She chuckled, then leaned in to kiss him.

The kiss was warm, slow, and familiar now. Robin’s hands rested on her hips, steady, and hers curled at the collar of his shirt. She giggled softly as his lips brushed along her jaw to her neck. He smiled against her skin.

“You're definitely stretching the rules,” he murmured.

“I prefer… creative interpretation,” Nyx whispered back, her fingers threading through his hair.

They didn’t rush. They didn’t need to. Every brush of lips and touch of fingers was purposeful, a quiet promise between the two of them. When she finally leaned back, slightly breathless and flushed, she rested her forehead against his.

“We should stop before someone knocks,” she whispered, eyes still closed.

“I’m not moving,” Robin murmured, arms holding her close. “They can knock all they want.”

She smiled against his cheek, content for a moment to stay wrapped up in him, shadows flickering gently on the walls—silent, steady, and for once, safe.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

There was a soft knock at Nyx’s door.

Robin’s lips had just brushed the corner of her mouth again, a smile still half-formed there, when the sound made them both freeze. Their foreheads were still resting together. Nyx didn’t move—barely breathed. Robin groaned quietly, his voice muffled against her shoulder.

“Of course,” he muttered. “I should’ve seen this coming.”

Nyx snorted softly, brushing her thumb over his cheek. “They’ve got the worst timing. Always.”

Another knock. This time, louder.

“Nyx?” M’gann’s voice filtered through the door, gentle but insistent. “We’re heading to the lounge in a bit. Wally’s threatening to microwave that alien popcorn again, and I thought you’d want to save us.”

Robin sighed into Nyx’s neck. “I’m starting to think Wally does this on purpose.”

Nyx tried to suppress a laugh. “Give me a sec, M’gann!” she called out, her voice slightly higher than usual.

Outside the door, there was a pause.

“…You’re not alone, are you?” came M’gann’s knowing tone.

Nyx’s eyes widened as she mouthed, how does she always know?

Robin was already slipping off the bed and heading toward the window that looked directly into the main room of the Cave. “Time for the old stealth exit,” he whispered with a crooked grin.

“You’re not jumping out the window.”

“I’ve done it before,” he said, deadpan. “In jeans, no less.”

She shoved a pillow at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m efficient. ” He turned at the windowsill, eyes softening as he looked at her one last time before making his quiet getaway. “Don’t worry—I’ll see you in the lounge. Try not to look too lovestruck. You’re ruining your whole aesthetic.”

Nyx threw the other pillow at the window just after he vanished, biting down a grin as she headed for the door.

She pulled it open and was met by M’gann, arms crossed and a knowing look on her face.

Nyx raised a brow. “What?”

“Nothing,” M’gann said sweetly. “Just… Robin left his hoodie on your bed.”

Nyx blinked.

“No, he didn’t. He was just wearing it as he was leaving— oh my god.” She spun on her heel and groaned, disappearing back into the room. M’gann laughed as she floated away, humming innocently.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Gotham City

November 10th – 13:12 EST

The sky above Gotham was a slate grey, brushed with streaks of orange from the sinking afternoon sun. Clouds hung heavy but distant, and the faint chill of November whispered between the cracks in the towering high-rises. Streetlamps flickered in anticipation of the encroaching evening, casting soft golden glows on the pavements already dusted with fallen leaves. The usual Gotham bustle played like a low hum in the background, honking cabs, the occasional shout, the chatter of city dwellers wrapped in scarves and coats, hustling from shop to shop.

Arabella and Artemis stepped out of the Zeta Tube tucked within an alleyway behind an old bookstore. A plume of warm air escaped as a passer-by opened the door beside them, the smell of roasted chestnuts from a nearby street vendor wafting into the cool air.

“M’gann asked for birthday balloons, birthday banners, birthday hats, birthday candles…” Arabella was reading off a list on her phone, her voice tinged with amusement. “Birthday everything,” she added with a laugh, the corner of her lip quirking upwards.

As Artemis emerged behind her, Arabella pushed her sunglasses up into her hair, letting them rest like a crown above her forehead. It was just the two of them today– there was no need to hide her identity. She wore a black fitted turtleneck that ended just above her smart trousers, a sweeping dark trench coat draped over her like a second shadow. Her hair was loose, flowing in its usual soft, dark, curly waves, a striking contrast to her otherwise minimalist look.

Artemis was bundled in a forest green puffer jacket over her grey hoodie and jeans, a more casual aesthetic, her hair swept into her usual high ponytail. She eyed Arabella’s sleek ensemble and raised a brow.

“Is that designer?” Artemis asked, narrowing her eyes playfully.

Arabella smirked. “Yeah.”

“Rich people,” Artemis muttered, shaking her head with a teasing grin.

“Hey!” Arabella gently nudged her with her elbow. 

Artemis rolled her eyes but laughed. “How much time do we have to get all this stuff?”

“Well, M’gann didn’t exactly give us a deadline,” Arabella replied, glancing back at her phone. “She just assigned everyone their ‘missions.’ Ours happens to be Wally’s surprise sweet sixteenth birthday bash decorations.”

“Right,” Artemis said, tucking her hands into her coat pockets as they walked down the street.

“So,” Arabella asked, checking the list again, “where to first?”

“There’s a party store a few blocks away. We could start there,” Artemis suggested.

“Let’s do it,” Arabella nodded, and the two set off into the afternoon rush.

They passed Gotham Central Park, where skeletal trees rattled gently in the breeze, stripped nearly bare by autumn. A few joggers passed them, huffing against the cold, and pigeons scattered from a breadcrumb pile by the fountain. Towering over the park, as always, was Luthor Tower—sleek and imposing, its mirrored windows glinting in the light like polished armour.

Arabella’s gaze lingered on the Gotham skyline, but her eyes weren’t really focused on the view—they were looking somewhere far beyond it. For a heartbeat, her expression was unreadable: poised, as always, but softer around the edges. Unguarded in that rare, fleeting way she allowed herself when no one was watching too closely.

“He’s out of the country for two weeks,” she said, voice barely above a whisper—less an answer, more a thought spoken aloud. A reminder. A fact she needed to hear out loud to believe.

Artemis, sprawled across one of the penthouse loungers, glanced sideways. “So… no surprise inspections?”

Arabella exhaled, almost a laugh but not quite. “Not today.” Her voice was dry, the words laced with wry relief and something else—something like exhaustion threaded with defiance. She folded her arms across her chest and turned slightly, shoulders loosening as if the absence of Lex Luthor’s shadow had physically lifted off her.

“Just a temporary reprieve,” she added, quieter now, more to herself than to Artemis.

They walked for a while in companionable silence, Gotham's autumn scenery playing out around them—twisting wrought iron fences, golden light filtering through crisp amber leaves, the rhythmic thud of footsteps and city life echoing around them.

“Do you remember when we first joined the team?” Arabella broke the silence, a nostalgic lilt in her voice.

“Oh, yeah,” Artemis snorted, brushing a strand of blonde hair from her face. “I remember stepping out of the Zeta Tube and nearly tripping over myself from nerves. Legit thought I was going to faceplant right in front of them.”

“You sure didn’t look nervous,” Arabella said with a laugh, glancing sideways. “You walked in like you were ready to knock someone out.”

“Well, I was,” Artemis replied, smirking. “With anxiety. Meanwhile, you looked like you owned the place.”

Arabella barked a laugh. “I was terrified. Especially of Robin.”

Artemis blinked, turning to face her. “Robin? You? No way. You were the definition of cool and mysterious from the second you showed up.”

“Batman made me watch all his mission tapes when I was still training,” Arabella admitted, nudging a rock out of her path with her foot. “Every. Single. One. I knew his fighting style before I even met him. He was already this seasoned operative—stealthy, strategic, fearless. I was barely eight and still getting used to my powers. And he’s only a year older than me. It felt like trying to measure up to a legend. Batman’s Boy Wonder.”

“Wow,” Artemis said quietly before letting a grin pull at her mouth. “I never would’ve guessed. You’ve always been so composed. Confident. Mysterious shadow-girl with the cut-glass cheekbones and perfect face”

Arabella shrugged, a coy smile flickering on her lips. “Smoke and mirrors. And the face is a gift from Lex… and my mother. Comes with the whole dark, evil, shadow aesthetic.”

Artemis rolled her eyes affectionately. “Alright then, Lady of Shadows. Next question: Who on the team caught your eye first?”

Arabella nearly stumbled over a tree root. “What?!”

Artemis raised an eyebrow. “Don’t act surprised. You knew this was coming. C’mon. Be honest.”

Arabella groaned, covering her face with one hand. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re dodging the question.”

Arabella bit her lip, cheeks warming despite the chill in the air. “Fine,” she muttered, her voice low. “Robin.”

Artemis groaned dramatically, throwing her head back. “Boring!”

Arabella gasped in mock offence. “Hey! I had to analyse every second of his missions for months. And then I met him at a League thing in front of the Hall of Justice when I was little, long before I actually got to know him. I was smitten. He waved at me.”

Artemis dissolved into laughter. “You?! Smitten?! Oh my god, I can’t breathe.”

Arabella shoved her gently. “Don’t act like you never had a crush on a boy when you were that little.”

“I didn’t– at least not on Robin.” Artemis laughed.

“Go on, then. What about you?”

“Okay—fine. The first person I noticed was... Connor.”

Arabella blinked. “Connor? All broody and monosyllabic?”

“He’s built! And objectively hot. I mean, I didn’t know he was practically ten days old at the time,” she added quickly, laughing. “But I’m a sixteen-year-old girl, and he was wearing that tight black Superman shirt. Give me a break.”

Arabella laughed until her eyes watered. “That’s... fair. So what happened with that?”

“Nothing. It was a phase. Once he and M’gann got all googly-eyed over each other, I backed off. Hard. No way was I third-wheeling that whole situation.”

Arabella wiped a tear from her eye. “I always thought you and Wally had a flirty thing, going on though.”

Artemis recoiled like she’d been physically struck. “Wally?! Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on,” Arabella teased, eyes dancing with amusement. “You guys have chemistry. The banter, the way you roll your eyes at him but always know where he is in a fight…”

Artemis glared. “That’s not chemistry; that’s survival instinct.”

Arabella smirked. “M’gann and I still have that bet going, you know.”

Artemis stopped walking. “Still?! ”

“Oh, yeah. A hundred per cent. We’ve got odds and everything.”

“You’re the worst,” Artemis groaned, shoving her again.

Arabella grinned, the wind catching in her hair. “And yet… You love me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Artemis muttered, but she was smiling too.

They continued down the street, the afternoon light spilling through the trees above them, laughter trailing behind them like the shadows that danced around Arabella’s heels. And in that moment, despite the chaos of their lives, the secrets and the stakes, they were just two girls, sharing stories, teasing each other, and walking toward whatever came next.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The pair reached the bright storefront of the Gotham Party Warehouse, its windows jam-packed with an assault of neon streamers, flashing signs, and the garish glow of inflatable cartoon characters dancing behind the glass. A cardboard cut-out of a grinning clown pointed toward the entrance as if welcoming them to chaos incarnate.

“Right,” Artemis said, crossing her arms with a wicked grin. “Operation ‘Red and Orange Explosion’ is a go.”

Arabella cracked her knuckles, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Let’s make this party so aggressively 'Wally,' even he questions his life choices.”

They slipped inside, immediately assaulted by the scent of rubber balloons, cheap plastic, and far too much glitter. Bright fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as the girls split up, darting through aisles like operatives on a mission. Every aisle seemed more ridiculous than the last, streamers in clashing colours, oversized foam fingers, confetti cannons, party poppers that promised to “bang louder than your ex's opinions.”

Arabella grabbed a stack of fire-red paper plates that said ‘Speed Up the Party!’ in Comic Sans. “It’s like this aisle was curated by Wally’s subconscious.”

“Or his ego,” Artemis muttered, picking up a noisemaker shaped like a lightning bolt and giving it a test blow. It shrieked like a banshee. “Perfect.”

“Absolutely hideous,” Arabella said, adding it to the basket. “We’ll need at least twelve.”

Every now and then, one would shout across the aisle: “Heads up!” or “You’re gonna hate this!” followed by giddy laughter as they showcased some new monstrosity. Arabella nearly cried when she found a packet of bright orange napkins that read ‘World’s Fastest Fork-Lifter’ with a cartoon of a running fork on them.

And then Artemis’s voice rang out—“Oh my God, Arabella, come here right now!”

Arabella came jogging over, skidding to a halt beside a wide-eyed Artemis who was staring, open-mouthed, at a towering display in the back corner of the store.

It was a massive inflatable balloon. Not just any balloon— a six-foot-tall Kid Flash, with exaggerated muscles, a lopsided smirk, and a hand permanently frozen in a “thumbs-up.” His eyes were way too large. One was winking. His hair looked like it had been sculpted out of rubber spaghetti.

There was a beat of silence.

Arabella blinked. “No. No way. This is—”

“Hideous,” Artemis wheezed. “It’s so hideous.”

Arabella burst into laughter, practically doubling over. “What unhinged maniac approved this design? It looks like he’s going to sell you energy drinks and then mug you in the alley.”

“Look at the proportions!” Artemis choked. “His arms are longer than his legs!”

“He looks like a cursed Funko Pop.”

They were laughing so hard they had to grip the edge of the shelf to stay upright.

“We are buying three, ” Artemis said through her tears.

“Three? We need one for the Cave, one for the party, and one just to haunt him with later.”

Artemis nodded, composing herself slightly. “We’ll deflate it and leave it in his room like a cursed totem.”

“Or put it next to his bed and wait for him to scream.”

“Or… hear me out—harness it to hover behind him on missions.”

Arabella snorted. “It’ll be like his own personal cheer squad.”

“Nightmare squad, more like.”

The two collapsed into laughter again as Arabella fumbled to carry it. “Right. Let’s buy the stupid balloon before I actually lose my voice from cackling.”

As they made their way to the register, arms overloaded with red and orange monstrosities, Artemis muttered, “He’s going to hate us.”

Arabella just grinned. “That’s how you know we’ve done it right.”

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Their arms were overflowing with party supplies, streamers in metallic red and orange, helium balloons, packets of confetti, plastic cups, paper plates, and more bags of sweets than any reasonable gathering could possibly require. And, of course, the three massive Kid Flash balloons. The two girls staggered out of the shop, laughter bubbling from them so fiercely that they could barely walk in a straight line.

“I swear, if you make me carry one more glitter cannon, I’m detonating it in your penthouse,” Artemis wheezed between giggles, trying not to drop the oversized packet of glow sticks wedged under her arm.

Arabella, sunglasses still perched artfully on her head, tilted her head with a feigned gasp. “But how will we survive without disco fog and neon streamers? You’re threatening the entire aesthetic.”

“I’m threatening our aesthetic,” Artemis muttered, nearly tripping over a rogue balloon string.

Arabella laughed again—unrestrained and genuine—as they turned the corner. But the sound faded when they spotted a group of teenagers loitering by a bakery, chatting with phones in hand and iced coffees balanced precariously on railings. One of the older boys did a double-take, his eyes going wide.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “Is that—?”

“Excuse me,” he called, stepping forward, his phone already raised, screen glowing. “Sorry to interrupt… but are you Arabella Luthor?”

Arabella froze, the easy joy draining from her posture for a breath. She caught Artemis’s surprised glance out of the corner of her eye—then, just as quickly, composed herself. The transformation was subtle but seamless.

She tilted her head slightly, offering a soft, camera-ready smile. “I am.”

“Whoa. That’s… wow. Do you mind if we get a photo?”

“Not at all,” she said smoothly, handing her bags off to Artemis with a graceful flick of her wrist. “Would you mind holding these for a moment?”

Artemis blinked, arms already full, and watched as Arabella stepped into the small crowd that had now gathered. She stood with practised ease, posture perfect, chin angled just right, as the teenagers snapped photos with her. She looked just like she did on her Gotham Academy posters. Her voice took on a lighter tone, bright but poised, and she even offered a soft laugh at one of the girl’s compliments.

“I love your outfit,” the girl beamed.

“Thank you,” Arabella replied with effortless warmth. 

Artemis stood awkwardly to the side, bags digging into her arms, watching with fascination. Arabella, who fought like a phantom and whispered in shadows, now smiled like she belonged on the cover of Gotham Vogue. To be fair, she did. 

More pictures. More compliments. More awed glances and muffled giggles. And then, as Arabella began to gently disengage, the first boy stepped forward again, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Uh… I know this is probably a long shot, but… would it be alright if I got your number?”

Arabella turned back to him, eyes kind but cool. “I’m flattered,” she said with a touch of apology in her tone. “But I’m not interested.”

He nodded quickly, trying to play it off, and she gave him a gracious smile before returning to Artemis, accepting the bags with a casual air. She adjusted her sunglasses and hair with the poise of someone used to dodging cameras and whispered speculation.

They started walking again, back into the stream of Gotham pedestrians.

“So…” Artemis said slowly, falling into step beside her. “Does that happen… often?”

Arabella let out a sigh, small but exasperated. “All the time. Paparazzi once followed me into a dentist’s appointment. One of them tried to offer me a deal for a magazine cover while I was in the chair. Thankfully, Winston was there to usher them away.”

“That’s insane.”

“Gotham’s very own tragic heiress,” Arabella said dryly. “People want to see if I’m just like the rest of them. Or if I’ll snap like my father and act above it all.”

Artemis didn’t laugh. “That’s messed up.”

Arabella shrugged, linking her arm through Artemis’s. “It’s just part of the role. Fake a smile, answer politely, pretend you don’t notice when they whisper behind your back.”

“And now I get to be the mystery girl on the gossip blogs,” Artemis groaned.

“Oh, definitely. ‘Arabella Luthor spotted with unknown companion, ditching her high-profile friends already?’”

“Oh my god, no,” Artemis groaned louder. “They’re gonna get me in the worst lighting, I just know it.”

“Welcome to my world,” Arabella said, smirking as they melted back into the pulse of the city. “Nothing is private and everything is performance.”

Artemis glanced over, studying her with quiet understanding. “That’s not all you are, you know.”

Arabella tilted her head. 

“You’re more than the Luthor name,” Artemis said. “More than all of that.”

Arabella’s smile softened, not quite as perfect or camera-ready this time. “Thanks.”

“You’re still a nightmare, though. That hasn’t changed.”

“I’ll take it,” she laughed, bumping Artemis gently with her hip as they walked on, party bags rustling between them.

Arabella glanced sideways. “Do you want to grab lunch before heading back?”

The response was instant. “Oh my god, yes,” came the groan, accompanied by an exaggerated clutching of the stomach. “I’m starving.”

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Mount Justice

November 10th – 16:48 EST 

Arabella put her sunglasses on properly as she and Artemis stepped into the Cave. The blast of warmer air was a relief after trudging around Gotham for hours. Their arms were red from the plastic bag handles digging into them, and they dropped their respective hauls with audible groans just inside the main room. Arabella exhaled dramatically.

“Never again,” Artemis muttered as she rolled her shoulders, and Arabella could only hum in agreement.

Without missing a beat, Arabella flicked her fingers, and swirling shadows coiled around the mound of shopping bags, gently levitating them off the floor and carrying them into the lounge area.

“Thanks,” Artemis murmured, rubbing her sore wrists. “If I had to carry one more ‘Wally-themed item,’ I might’ve actually combusted.”

“I thought you said this would be fun,” Arabella quipped.

“I said it could be fun. If it didn’t involve carrying enough party supplies to throw a gala in Metropolis.”

Just as they stepped into the lounge, M’gann flew in, bright-eyed and smiling as usual.

“Hey! You’re back!” she beamed, floating down and landing lightly beside them. “How was Gotham City?”

“Great,” Artemis said—though it came out as more of a grumble.

“Are you sure?” M’gann asked with a tilt of her head, concern flickering across her expression.

“She’s just traumatised from all the walking,” Arabella said lightly, brushing her hair out of her face. “And the… interactions.”

“Interactions?” Zatanna called from the kitchen area, where she and Robin were arranging snacks and decorations. “What happened?”

“Oh, we were stopped seven times by strangers,” Artemis huffed, hands on her hips. “Literally just walking down a street and getting pulled for photos.”

“Wait, what? Why?” M’gann looked genuinely puzzled.

“Because Nyx,” Artemis said with a dramatic flourish, “is just too popular. Brooding beauty and all that.”

Arabella gave her a flat look. “You make it sound like I stood on a pedestal and posed.”

Artemis teased, nudging her with her elbow. “One of them even asked for her number.”

Robin’s head snapped up from where he was untangling party lights. “Oh, really?” he said, voice neutral but one brow very much raised behind his sunglasses.

“Yup,” Artemis said with a devilish grin. “Pretty boy. He looked like he modelled for toothpaste commercials.”

Nyx rolled her eyes, flopping down onto the arm of the sofa and finally slipping out of her trench coat. “He asked. I told him I wasn’t interested.”

“I don’t blame him for trying,” Robin said casually, though the smirk tugging at his lips was just a little too pleased. His eyes flicked briefly to hers, lingering.

“Are you famous or something?” Connor asked as he heaved a massive bag of flour onto the counter with a thud.

Nyx hesitated just a second too long. “No. I’m just insanely beautiful,” she said with a dramatic toss of her hair. The team burst into laughter.

“Sounds about right,” Zatanna said, grinning as she pulled more things out of the bags.

“So…” Nyx began, “what did you guys manage to get while we were out?”

Connor, still at the counter, gestured to a mountain of groceries. “We were on cake duty. And Wally’s favourite food duty. So basically… we bought everything edible in a three-mile radius.”

Robin snorted as he struggled to tie off a final string, standing next to the balloon pump. “Honestly, we’ve got a mountain of snacks, drinks, decorations... and then— we found this madness in the party bags.” He stepped aside with an exaggerated flourish, revealing the three towering helium balloons shaped like Kid Flash that the girls had bought.

The room fell into stunned silence. Artemis crossed her arms and looked at Nyx, who was biting her lip to keep from laughing.

“I cannot believe we actually bought those,” Artemis muttered.

“I can,” Nyx replied with a mischievous grin. “We said we had to.”

“I know.” Artemis cackled.

“It’s the most accurate representation of Wally I’ve ever seen. Over-the-top. Slightly terrifying. Questionable taste in spandex.” Nyx defended the balloon with pretend offence.

Robin raised his hands like he was introducing a sacred monument. “Behold, Kid Flash in his full helium glory. I expect tears. Possibly minor trauma.”

M’gann clapped a hand over her mouth, then dissolved into giggles. “Oh my god, he’s either going to love it or spiral into an existential crisis.”

“Or both,” Artemis added with a snort.

“Honestly,” Nyx said, stepping back to admire their purchase, “I think this is the greatest contribution we could’ve made to tomorrow’s festivities.”

Robin gave a solemn nod. “A true masterpiece of chaos.”

“I give it ten minutes before he tries to take one home,” M’gann said, floating over to snap a photo.

“And three before Connor pops it on purpose,” Artemis added.

“Worth it,” Nyx said smugly, crossing her arms. “Totally worth it.”

Zatanna laughed as she pulled out a stack of small Polaroid cameras. “Kaldur and I found these cute cameras, so we can take photos during the party. I even got film in colour and black and white—y’know, for aesthetic. ”

“Cute,” Arabella said, already imagining the chaos of the photos they’d take. “And the drinks?”

Zatanna grinned and produced three clinking bottles from one of the bags. “Saved the best for last.”

“You bought alcohol?” Artemis arched a brow.

Zatanna put on an innocent expression. “Nooo… I accidentally got several bottles of perfectly legal sparkling juice for adults. For later, of course. When Red Tornado’s safely upstairs recharging.”

Nyx snorted. “We’re all doomed.”

“Who’s we?” Artemis raised her eyebrow at her.

Kaldur, who had returned with Robin from unpacking more balloons, surveyed the room with a rare smile. “We should have everything in place by tonight. Tomorrow, we celebrate Wally West.”

“Brace yourselves,” Robin muttered, “He’s going to be insufferable. ”

“Hasn’t he always been?” Arabella deadpanned.

The entire team groaned in agreement, but with grins all around. The party was going to be a disaster. A loud, ridiculous, sugary, Kid-Flash-themed disaster.

They couldn’t wait.

Chapter Text

Mount Justice

November 11th – 16:00 EST 

Snow flurried in soft, silver spirals against the towering windows of Mount Justice, each gust blurring the view of the frozen landscape beyond. Inside, the lounge was bathed in the golden glow of fairy lights strung across the ceiling beams, casting a festive shimmer over the polished floors. Tinsel glinted from every corner, and a mismatched collection of ornaments dangled from the indoor ficus that had been dubiously promoted to "party tree." The faint scent of vanilla sponge and molten chocolate swirled with hot cocoa steam and the sharp, clean sweetness of pine from the candles Artemis had insisted on lighting.

The fireplace crackled with steady warmth, adding a low, soothing soundtrack to the gentle chaos of last-minute birthday prep.

“Guys, it’s snowing!” Nyx called out, excitement softening the usual sleek composure of her voice. She reached up to pin the final streamer above the archway—a red-and-orange burst of Happy Birthday, KF! stitched together from ribbons and sheer stubbornness. “We have to go outside later. Snowmen. Snowball war. All of it.”

She stepped back to admire her work, cheeks pink from exertion, dark eyes dancing. Her hair tumbled freely past her shoulders, pulled back at the temples by a narrow black headband, and her outfit—an elegant black turtleneck tucked into sharply tailored high-waisted trousers—was as effortless as it was out of place among the garlands and mismatched decorations.

“He’s not even here yet, and I can already hear him arguing over who gets the biggest snowball,” Robin muttered from the couch, scowling at the glitter that had somehow attached itself to his jumper. He plucked a piece of tinsel from his sleeve with the air of someone under siege.

“He should be here any minute!” M’gann called from the kitchen counter, her voice practically glowing. She had flour on her hands, a smudge on her cheek, and the kind of proud beam only someone guarding not one but two lovingly homemade cakes could wear. One was a rich chocolate fudge cake topped with garish red icing, the other a delicate vanilla sponge layered with berry compote, both now surrounded by mismatched candles and paper plates.

“Nyx, could you do your shadow thing and keep watch in the main room?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron. “Let us know the second he gets through the Zeta Tube?”

Nyx gave a sly smirk and melted into shadow with a sound like silk tearing softly. Her silhouette slipped through the room like a living wisp of night, folding beneath the lounge doors and gliding across the corridors like a ghost trailing laughter. The lights near the Zeta Tube dimmed ever so slightly, a telltale flicker in the overheads betraying her presence.

Then—

[Recognised: Kid Flash, B-03. Zeta Tube network now offline due to extreme atmospheric conditions.]

A moment later, a shadow flickered just behind the lounge doors. Nyx’s whisper curled into the air like a secret. “He’s here.”

The doors creaked open.

“Be a tragedy if I missed my own—”

“ Surprise! ” the entire team chorused, cutting him off as the lights blazed on.

Flash stood in the centre, grinning widely. Red Tornado loomed behind him, party hat perched at a precarious tilt. Confetti exploded above them, raining down in an absurd, glittering shower that Wally immediately tried to catch on his tongue.

He blinked in mock-stunned silence. “Oh, you guys… You really shouldn’t have.”

“Right,” Robin said flatly. “Not like you’ve been hinting for days or anything.”

“Subtle as a brick through a window,” Artemis added, tossing him a cone-shaped hat.

“We made two cakes!” M’gann declared, floating toward him like a sugar-dusted fairy godmother.

Wally clutched his chest. “You angels. What are the rest of you eating?”

“Cupcake crumbs,” Nyx quipped, reappearing beside Artemis with a paper plate in hand.

M’gann struck a match with a flourish and lit the candles. “Make a wish.”

Wally closed his eyes with mock solemnity, inhaled with theatrical force, and blew out every single candle in one go.

The room erupted into applause.

Slices were handed out with expert precision—M’gann somehow managing to remember everyone’s preferred flavours—while Wally promptly demolished his first piece and reached for a second, only narrowly avoiding a fizzy drink catastrophe.

Off to the side, Nyx and Artemis sat cross-legged on the rug, balancing their plates in their laps like it was a picnic.

“Poor guy,” Nyx giggled, nodding at Wally, who was now attempting to speak and chew at the same time.

Artemis shook her head with a fond eye-roll. “Yeah. But I’ve never seen him look happier.”

“It was painful watching him pine after M’gann,” Connor added, settling beside them with a generous wedge of cake and zero shame.

“He knows now,” Nyx said softly, eyes drifting to the far end of the room, where Robin handed a plate to Zatanna. Her smile was small, tentative, but real. A flicker of light through grief.

“I love those balloons,” Wally called out dramatically, pointing to the six-foot-tall caricature of himself Artemis and Nyx had bought the day before. Its hair looked like fried noodles. Its muscles were a cartoonish joke. One eye winked permanently.

“Told you he’d love them,” Robin whispered to Zatanna.

But then the lights flickered.

The room stilled as Batman’s voice cut crisply through the comms.

“Attention, team. Suit up. Polar Stealth. Mission briefing in five.”

A unified groan swept the lounge.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Wally moaned, cake halfway to his mouth.

“We didn’t even get to the hot cocoa,” M’gann whispered in dismay.

Robin was already on his feet, brushing crumbs from his jumper. “You know Bats and snow don’t mix.”

Artemis stood and tossed Wally his gloves. “Happy birthday.”

“Best one yet,” Wally sighed, jogging toward the lockers.

Nyx caught Robin’s eye and mouthed, Snowmen later?

He grinned, the tiniest, most secret smile. “Absolutely.”

And just like that, the warmth of the lounge, the lights, the laughter, the sugar-frosted calm, was left behind, replaced by steel corridors and biting wind. The mission called.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The air in the main room felt charged, tighter, tenser than usual. Holographic screens glowed softly in the dim lighting, painting the team’s faces in pale blue light as they all stood assembled before the large central projector. The image of Batman crackled into sharp resolution—live, remote, and as intimidating as ever.

Nyx stood slightly behind Artemis and M’gann, arms crossed and silent. Her polar suit shimmered softly under the light, a seamless contrast from her usual inky shadow aesthetic. The stark white of her new uniform was pristine, with silver-white fox fur lining the cuffs of her sleeves and hood, flipped up and casting a soft shadow across the upper half of her mask. The delicate channels of circuitry running along her body pulsed faint lavender, nearly imperceptible unless one looked closely. She looked… colder. Elegant. As if winter had wrapped itself around her skin.

Wally fidgeted beside her, arms folded as he shifted weight from one foot to the other, the chill in the air not from the cold but from anticipation. The team stood in formation: Superboy, Robin, Aqualad, Artemis, Miss Martian, Zatanna, Kid Flash, and Nyx—uniformed and ready, save for the crackling silence Wally finally broke.

“Where’s Flash?” he asked, eyes scanning the base as if his mentor might appear from behind the console.

Batman’s voice was steady, flat. “Flash and Red Tornado already have their assignments. A massive ice storm has paralysed North America from coast to coast. Satellite imagery has detected five flying ice fortresses. Source unknown. These fortresses are believed to be responsible for the storm—and they must be stopped.”

Everyone fell silent, standing straighter, more alert. All except Wally, who, despite the seriousness, couldn’t contain his twitchy energy.

“Can’t the Watchtower blow them out of the sky or something?” he asked, exasperated.

Zatanna leaned closer to Robin, her voice hushed. “What’s a Watchtower?”

Robin smirked. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Batman sighed. A very Batman sigh.

Nyx’s lips curled into the faintest smirk beneath her mask.

“The League’s orbiting headquarters is not weaponised,” Batman continued, unfazed. “And with both Green Lanterns off-world, I need all hands on deck.”

Robin leaned forward slightly, barely able to contain himself. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

Batman nodded. “The League and the Team will be fighting side-by-side.”

“Whoa. Really?” Wally’s face lit up with excitement, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Superboy, use the Super-Cycle to rendezvous with the Batplane at Ice Fortress One. You’ll drop off Robin and Aqualad, then continue on with Wolf to meet Black Canary and Red Tornado at Fortress Two.”

Superboy gave a terse nod. “Got it.”

“Miss Martian, Artemis, Nyx, Zatanna—you’ll take the Bio-Ship to rendezvous with Green Arrow and Martian Manhunter at Fortress Three. Coordinates are being uploaded now.”

“Other Leaguers are handling Fortresses Four and Five,” Batman added. “Your priorities are disabling the fortress’s power cores and securing any hostiles. Expect resistance.”

Wally stepped forward then, his brow furrowed as he counted off names in his head. “Uh, Batman? I think you skipped—”

“Kid Flash,” Batman interrupted, as if reading from a script. “A young girl in Seattle is in desperate need of a heart transplant. With all conventional air traffic grounded by the storm, you’ll need to pick up the donor heart in Boston and run it across country. Three thousand miles.”

The air in the room shifted. Quieter. Heavier.

Wally blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

His eyes scanned Batman’s face on the screen like he was searching for some hint that this was a joke. A test. Anything.

“Who is this girl?” he asked finally, voice barely more than a whisper.

“Does it matter?” Batman replied with an arched brow.

Wally looked away. “No. No, of course not. But can’t we Zeta—?”

“Zeta Tubes are offline. Sorry,” Robin cut in with a faint shrug.

Wally stood still for a moment, taking it in. The shift from 'ice fortress combat' to ‘medical courier’ felt jarring and unfair.

“Right,” he mumbled. “Then how can I say no?”

He stepped back, gave the smallest sigh, and pulled on a weak grin. “Guess I won’t be needing stealth. Speedy Delivery Boy, at your service.”

There was no sarcasm. Just resignation.

Nyx turned her head slightly, watching him with a softness behind her lenses. She’d tease him later, when they’d won and the child was alive. But for now, she just gave him a subtle nod.

Wally caught it. His grin grew stronger. Not so weak this time.

Robin stepped up beside him and clapped him on the back. “You’re saving a life, KF. That’s hero work.”

Artemis echoed the sentiment. “We’ll hold down the flashy end of things. You do the important bit.”

Wally rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck, the weight of the mission settling into his frame. “Well... let’s hope the Boston hospital has hot nurses.”

The team chuckled, tension eased for a breath.

“Coordinates locked,” Batman said. “Move out. And good luck.”

The transmission ended. The hologram flickered off.

The team scattered, falling into motion like clockwork. M’gann and Zatanna headed for the Bio-Ship. Superboy and Wolf were already speeding toward the garage. Robin and Kaldur moved toward the weapons locker.

Nyx lingered a second longer, adjusting her gloves. Her white hood cast a faint shadow over her features, but her mind was sharp, already focused.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Ice Fortress 3

November 11th – 17:54 EST 

“Nyx, look out!” Artemis called over the link, loosing an arrow mid-shout as Nyx darted across the crumbling ledge of the floating ice fortress.

A turret to her left pulsed with light, whirring up for another blast. Without missing a beat, Nyx dissolved into liquid shadow, her body dispersing into tendrils of black mist that swept upward like a plume of smoke in a high wind. The turret’s beam cut through her dark form harmlessly, the light carving nothing but air.

From her vantage above, half-shadow and weightless in the sky, she reformed just behind the turret with a snap of frost and night. Her fingers sliced forward in a practised motion, and shadows surged from her palms—sharp, spear-like, and sentient. They pierced the cannon’s base, then twisted inward with precision, short-circuiting it in a burst of sparks and ice shards.

The fortress shuddered as another volley of defensive blasts rained down across the battlefield. Miss Martian flew overhead, telekinetically wrenching apart a bank of auto-firing drones, while Zatanna stood on a levitating sheet of ice, chanting under her breath. She caused a spiral stair of icicles to shoot up beneath one of the outer defence towers, impaling it from below.

Nyx took a moment in the sky, hovering in her shadow-form—a jagged silhouette against the swirling storm clouds—and surveyed the battlefield. Green Arrow was on the central platform, back-to-back with Artemis, firing arrows in coordinated arcs. She noted how they moved with instinctual rhythm—each gesture clean, deliberate, without wasted motion. Martian Manhunter phased through the wall of the next structure like mist, emerging just long enough to disable its power core with a mental blast before vanishing again.

A high-pitched whine pulled Nyx’s attention to her right—another turret had turned its sights on Zatanna, who was still mid-spell and vulnerable. Without thinking, Nyx shot forward, trailing a twisting stream of darkness behind her. The world around her slowed in the shadow-form—silent, weightless, electric. She wove through the beams with unnatural grace, then reformed directly in front of the turret, her body shielded by coiling shadows.

With a swift swipe of her arm, a blade of pure blackness cleaved the turret’s barrel in two. It exploded in a flash of fire and frost, the recoil forcing Nyx back—until she dissolved again into mist and reappeared behind Zatanna, who blinked in surprise.

“You alright?” Nyx asked, breathless, eyes still scanning.

Zatanna nodded, tightening her gloves. “Thanks. That one almost had me.”

Another wave of automated sentries burst from a side door, skittering like spiders with beam weapons mounted to their shoulders. Nyx dove into their midst, her form flickering in and out of visibility, dancing through shadow and steel. Every time one tried to lock on, she was already gone, already behind, already striking.

Her shadows wrapped around one, yanking it off its legs and slamming it into the frozen wall hard enough to leave a dent. Another she sliced clean through with a whiplash of darkness. She wasn’t just fighting—she was hunting, moving with quiet, relentless purpose.

Above, Martian Manhunter’s voice echoed telepathically across their minds: “The central core is beneath the main platform. We must take it offline before this fortress crashes into the city.”

“Then let’s finish this,” Green Arrow said, planting a final explosive arrow into a crumbling wall.

“Nyx, cover me,” Artemis called, leaping across the gap toward the centre. Nyx didn’t hesitate—she took to the air again in shadow-form, soaring like a ghost just overhead, intercepting turret beams and returning fire with dark-laced tendrils that coiled around Artemis like a protective shroud.

Together, they descended on the main platform. Miss Martian blasted open the control room doors. Zatanna shattered the remaining locks with magic. And Nyx—silent, swift, and cloaked in white midnight—slipped through the shadows into the heart of the fortress.

There, under a canopy of crackling cables and ice-rimed glass, she unleashed every ounce of her power. Shadows surged like a tide, disabling the final failsafes and shielding the others as they planted the final charge. It was messy. It was fast. And it was exhilarating.

Fighting alongside members of the League didn’t feel like proving herself. It just felt right. Natural. Like she belonged there, in the thick of it.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Mount Justice

November 11th – 22:25 EST

“Dude, I heard you saved an entire country.” Robin dropped onto the sofa beside Nyx, legs swinging slightly, still wearing his smug grin from earlier. He bumped her shoulder lightly. 

Wally leaned back in his chair, arms stretched behind his head, soaking in the attention like it was sunlight. “I’m the man .”

“Right, because it’s not every day the guy who can’t remember to get more milk ends up rescuing a literal queen .” Artemis snorted, kicking her feet up on the coffee table. “Queen Perdita, no less.”

“It was fate,” Wally declared dramatically. “Tragic international crisis meets dashing, birthday-speedster hero. Sparks fly. People cry. I pose for photos.”

Nyx gave him a slow, knowing smile. “So. Tell us. Did the Boston hospital have any of those ‘hot nurses’ you were so convinced the universe owed you?”

Robin burst out laughing, the sound sharp and bright. “You did not just say that—”

“She did.” Kaldur’s voice was low and amused from across the room, where he stood stirring something herbal into a teacup. Even he couldn’t help a smirk.

Wally held up a solemn hand. “There was one. Blonde. Great smile. But I had a whole nation’s well-being on my shoulders. Sacrifices had to be made.” He leaned back, utterly unbothered. “Best. Birthday. Ever.”

Artemis chucked a pillow at his head with perfect aim. “Ugh, I’m going to be hearing about this for months .”

“Try years,” Robin muttered.

Wally caught the pillow against his chest, hugged it dramatically. “You wound me. I thought we were celebrating my heroism tonight.”

“Oh, we are,” came Zatanna’s voice, full of wicked promise. In a swirl of magical blue light, seven glass bottles appeared in her hands and on the floor—two a deep amber, four translucent gold, the seventh violently green. She looked positively delighted.

“Z, is that—?” Robin sat forward.

“Top-shelf stuff, from a safe in a place I definitely didn’t break into.” Her eyes sparkled. “ Real alcohol. Courtesy of magic, Kaldur, and maybe some morally grey decision-making.”

There was a beat of silence as everyone looked between her and the bottles.

“I love you,” Wally said reverently, already reaching for the amber one.

Kaldur raised a brow. “We are all technically underage.”

“We just stopped an icy doomsday and a geopolitical meltdown,” Artemis replied, taking the gold bottle from Zatanna without hesitation. “We’re off the clock.”

“Besides, we’ve earned it.” Nyx took the green bottle, inspecting it. The liquid inside shimmered unnaturally, like oil in water.

“Now that’s team spirit,” Robin said, grinning as he took a swig from the bottle Nyx passed to him. “What is this? It tastes like—”

“Moonlight and mint. Enchanted absinthe. Don’t drink too fast.” Zatanna said cheerfully.

Wally clinked his bottle against Kaldur’s reluctantly raised glass. “To near-death experiences and international headlines.”

“To birthdays, booze, and bad decisions,” Artemis added.

“To surviving another week,” Nyx murmured, her voice quieter, but her smile was real.

And with that, the lounge filled with the sound of laughter and the clink of glass, the team sprawled across the sofa and floor cushions like kids who had momentarily outrun the weight of the world.

No missions. No codes. Just shadows, magic, and something that tasted like freedom.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

“Are you sure you can drink?” Kaldur asked, standing over them with the beleaguered air of a camp counsellor who’d just realised he’d agreed to chaperone unsupervised teens on spring break.

Nyx, half-buried in a nest of sofa cushions, tilted her head just enough to fix him with a dry stare. “Yes, Dad. I drink all the time when I’m not here.”

The room went dead silent. Like, dead dead. The air snapped taut, every pair of eyes on her as if she’d just casually announced she robbed banks on weekends.

Wally blinked. “Wait, what?”

Zatanna tilted her head, concern blooming in her voice. “Do we need to talk?”

“You okay, Nyx?” M’gann asked softly, already summoning a plush throw blanket from thin air like she might need to wrap Nyx in comfort and maternal energy immediately.

“Not like that! ” Nyx groaned, dragging a hand down her face in dramatic exasperation. “God, you people are so dramatic.”

Artemis snorted from her perch at the kitchen counter, where she and Connor were busily pouring contraband mystery liquor into paper cups and slicing limes with unsettling nonchalance. She was completely unbothered, twirling the knife between her fingers like this was just another Friday night. “She probably means events. You know, the kind with overpriced hors d'oeuvres and champagne flutes taller than Wally’s attention span. I think she’s famous or something.”

“Ohhhh,” M’gann breathed, shoulders relaxing. “Fancy drinking.”

“Yeah, totally different from under-the-table vodka in the rec room,” Zatanna said with a knowing smirk, conjuring a small sparkle in the air for emphasis.

Kaldur’s eyebrow remained firmly arched as he handed the bottle down the line to Wally. “Very well. But please pace yourselves.”

Wally snorted, already tipping the bottle. “Says the guy sipping this like it’s a fine after-dinner brandy.”

“It is foul. And it burns,” Kaldur said, grimacing slightly. “But I have endured worse.”

“That’s the spirit,” Robin said, leaning back with a grin. 

“I have such a good idea!” M’gann burst out, bouncing slightly as Artemis passed her a fizzy pink concoction. “Let’s play one of those Earth drinking games! I’ve seen so many on TV.”

“Truth or drink?” Zatanna offered, flicking her fingers to scatter glitter in the air like ambient mood lighting. “Spin the bottle? Or are we keeping it PG for Kaldur’s blood pressure?”

“Let’s go with a classic,” Wally declared, sliding into the middle of the newly rearranged lounge space where the couches had been shoved back and the carpet now served as their unofficial party floor. “Never Have I Ever. Drink if you’ve done it. No lying. Or Artemis gets to shoot you.”

“Sounds fair,” Artemis replied, not even looking up as she lobbed a foam dart straight at Wally’s forehead. Thwack. “Trial run.”

The group circled up, limbs folding into casual comfort — legs crossed, drinks in hand, the room now littered with throw pillows, discarded slippers, and the occasional spark of magical mood lighting. M’gann floated just above her cushion like a benevolent oracle. Robin sprawled sideways with all the grace of a smug housecat. Kaldur sat perfectly upright, posture regal even in casual chaos.

“Okay, okay,” Wally said, adjusting his seat with the smugness of a man about to cause a scene. “I’ll go first. Birthday boy’s rights. Never have I ever…” He broke into a cackle before he even finished the sentence. “Never have I ever walked in on Connor blasting Barbie Girl at 9 a.m. while polishing his Super-Cycle.”

Nyx snorted so hard she nearly choked on her drink.

Kaldur and M’gann both sipped without hesitation.

“Wait— WHAT?! ” Artemis nearly doubled over laughing. “When did that happen?!”

Kaldur, to his credit, kept his face mostly composed. Mostly. “After morning training. I was returning from the bay. Connor was… singing. Loudly. While cleaning the bike. He didn’t notice me for several minutes.”

Connor groaned and covered his face with one hand. “It’s a good song. I was in a good mood.”

“We love that for you,” Zatanna said brightly, raising her glass.

“I think it’s cute,” M’gann added, nestling into Connor’s side. “When we first started dating, he played it while brushing his hair before school. I didn’t say anything. I just… watched.”

“YOU WHAT?! ” Connor’s ears went red before the rest of his face caught up.

“Your turn, Ken,” Wally said, still giggling.

Connor took a long pause. Longer. Then…

“Never have I ever purposely lost to Black Canary just so she’d pin me down.”

The gasp was immediate and unified. A moment of stillness—then complete pandemonium.

Wally sputtered and practically face-dived into his cup. Robin fell sideways laughing. Artemis choked on a lime wedge.

“I knew it!” Robin pointed gleefully. “There’s no way you just happened to trip twice in a row like a cartoon character.”

“You’re a disaster, ” Artemis wheezed, eyes tearing up.

“I’m sorry, okay?!” Wally lifted his hands in surrender, though his grin was pure mischief. “She’s hot! And terrifying! I have a thing for blondes! You’ve seen her! Don’t act like you guys haven’t thought the same.” He jabbed a finger at Robin, Connor, and Kaldur.

“I value my life, thank you,” Robin said dryly.

“And I don’t think she’s into guys who shriek when they get elbowed,” Nyx added, not unkindly.

“Hey! It’s called expressing pain with enthusiasm! ” Wally defended, slapping a hand to his chest. “Some of us are emotionally available.”

“Maybe be emotionally available to some grass, ” Artemis muttered, lobbing a pillow at him.

Robin, still hiccupping from laughter, pulled himself upright. “Okay, my turn, my turn— Never have I ever hacked into Batman’s files for personal curiosity.”

The room froze. Then slowly… Nyx and Zatanna both lifted their drinks.

“You guys are unhinged,” Artemis said, eyebrows raised.

“You don’t not look when the password’s so easy to get to. It’s basically daring you to try,” Nyx shrugged, her smile edged with secrets. “Besides, I only peeked at the mission logs. And his grocery list. That man buys the same protein bars every week like clockwork.”

“I was checking spell protocols!” Zatanna said quickly. “And maybe… seeing if he had anything on my dad. He did. But still.”

Kaldur sighed, already rubbing his temple. “We are all going to be benched next week.”

“If we are,” Wally said with a grin, lifting his glass, “then I regret nothing. To the best damn team in the universe.”

The circle raised their cups high, drinks clinking softly in mismatched harmony over the centre of the circle. A quiet, flickering moment of unity in the warm chaos of friendship.

“Oh my God. Guys! ” Nyx suddenly jolted upright, sloshing her drink just short of spilling it across the carpet. Her voice rang with an urgency usually reserved for emergencies, but her grin said otherwise. She was glowing, her eyes wide with wonder.

“It’s snowing!” she shrieked, slamming her cup onto the table and darting for the coat rack by the door. “Let’s go! ”

The others froze, mid-laughter, blinking like they hadn’t heard her right.

“Snow? On the beach?” Zatanna echoed, head tilting with interest.

“No way,” Artemis said, squinting toward the frosted windows.

“I’m serious!” Nyx was already jamming her arms into her coat sleeves, a haphazard knot of black scarf looped around her neck. Her hair was a chaotic halo of curls, static from the heat inside and the alcohol in her bloodstream. With one hand, she snagged a bottle from the table—barely checking which one—and bolted toward the exit. “Come on! Don’t be boring!”

“Wait, your gloves—” Artemis started, but Nyx was already gone, a blur of excitement and gloves forgotten,

She disappeared through the corridor that led to the courtyard, her voice trailing behind her with a breathless, “Let’s gooo!”

For half a second, the room was silent. Then chaos.

Zatanna leapt to her feet with a laugh. “What are we waiting for?”

Wally snatched up the last two bottles before Artemis could yell at him for leaving them. “Snow and booze? Best birthday ever .”

“Oh boy,” Kaldur muttered fondly as he pulled on his gloves, his careful composure cracking into a smile as he followed the stampede.

M’gann floated up instead of walking, giggling as she tugged her beanie down over her hair. Connor grunted as he stuffed his hands into his jacket, quietly amused, while Artemis helped M’gann zip up the back of her coat.

Within seconds, the lounge was abandoned, coats half-buttoned, laughter bouncing off the walls.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Outside, the air cut like crystal—sharp, clean, and cold enough to bite. It stung at the skin with a purity that made everything else feel more real. Every breath drawn in was icy clarity; every exhale a warm puff of ghostly white. The sky had turned a luminous pewter, smeared with the faintest lilac as the moon began its slow ascent. Snow fell in slow spirals, fine as sifted sugar, drifting sideways in the sea wind. It clung to eyelashes and hair, dissolved on lips, shimmered in the glow of the moonlight like the stars had decided to come down for a visit.

The beach beyond the Cave had been transformed. No longer a stretch of damp, half-forgotten coastline, it was now a quiet dreamscape, dusted in gossamer white, the sand turned into something tender and secret. The ocean rolled in slow motion, each wave laced with snowflakes that never quite settled on its surface, vanishing into salt and spray. It was the kind of beauty you didn’t expect, the kind that made you believe—just for a second—that the world could be magic.

Nyx was already out there. She spun across the frost-dusted shore like a shadow let loose, boots crunching over a mingling of salt and snow, laughter tumbling from her lips like music. Her cheeks were flushed with alcohol and joy, her scarf trailing behind her like a comet’s tail, catching on the wind. She threw her head back, mouth open in an incredulous laugh, and let the snowfall settle onto her lashes and the curve of her lips.

“It’s snowing on the beach !” she shouted, half-laughing, half-dreaming, as if the sky had done something just for her. She tilted back the bottle in her hand and took a long, triumphant swig, then let out a shriek of sheer delight, spinning again, arms flung wide like she could catch the whole sky. “Thanks, Mother Nature!” she called up, voice rich with breathless wonder, raising the bottle in a giddy toast to the heavens. Her coat flew behind her like a cape, her footsteps carving drunken constellations into the pale sand.

Wally burst out onto the deck behind her, skidding gracelessly across a slick patch of wood with a yelp. “Don’t die before I get to pelt you with a snowball, Nyx!”

“I make no promises!” she called back without missing a beat.

The others trickled out after them, drawn by the noise and the cold-stung thrill of it all. Artemis and Zatanna emerged arm in arm, the former already shivering, the latter wide-eyed with wonder. M’gann floated just above the sand, barefoot, her toes barely brushing the ground, while Connor followed in her wake, hands jammed deep in his jacket pockets, his breath fogging the air.

“Oh my god,” Artemis murmured, her voice soft with disbelief. “It’s actually sticking.”

Zatanna twirled beside her, snow clinging to the velvet folds of her coat. “This is... weird. Snow. On a beach. That’s not a thing.”

“It’s not weird,” Nyx declared, already collapsed in the sand like a fallen star, arms outspread. “It’s whimsical, cinematic, romantic. It’s fucking beautiful .”

“You’re gonna get frostbite on your ass,” Robin muttered as he dropped down beside her, brushing snow off his hoodie. His voice was dry, but his eyes were warm. “But you’d survive.”

“Shadow powers, Robin,” she grinned, teeth white against her flushed face. “I’m already, practically, basically, invincible.”

Kaldur settled onto the sand with his usual quiet grace, his movements as fluid as the sea behind them. “This is unusual,” he said, eyes fixed on the sky. “But pleasant.”

“It’s beautiful,” M’gann whispered. She hovered a little higher, spinning slowly with her arms outstretched, fingers splayed like she could catch the snow before it vanished. “It reminds me of winter on Mars... when the ice crystals glitter on the dunes like glass.”

“That sounds amazing,” Connor said softly. He nudged her shoulder with his own, and M’gann glowed.

Zatanna dropped to the ground beside Wally and began absentmindedly drawing sigils in the snow-speckled sand. “Alright, birthday boy. Don’t go getting emotional on us.”

“I make no promises,” Wally replied, and this time, there was something real beneath the words. His eyes were glassy—not just from drink—and he took a deep breath before raising the bottle again. “I love you guys.”

“Already?” Robin smirked. But there was no mockery behind it. Only understanding.

“No, I mean it.” Wally slung an arm over Connor’s shoulders, pulling him in with drunken affection. “You’re my best friends. Like, forever friends. Like, bonded-for-life, fought-evil-robots-together, definitely-have-shared-trauma kinda friends. The Young Justice League kinda friends.”

Connor blinked. “Thanks, man.”

“I’m serious!” Wally’s voice went up an octave, slurring his words. “We’re family now. This—” he gestured around them wildly with the bottle, “—this is the real deal. Look at us! Snow on the beach, smuggled alcohol, and half of us low-key traumatised, but we’re still here. Together.”

Nyx let out a strangled laugh, swiping at her eyes. “Well, now I have to cry.”

Artemis nudged her, her own nose red from the cold, her grin soft. “We’re not going anywhere.”

“Yeah, unless Batman grounds us for the hangovers,” Robin added, forming a snowball in his gloved hands.

“To teenage rebellion,” Zatanna said, lifting her bottle like a priestess at a sacrament.

“To dumb decisions with people you trust,” M’gann said, her smile luminous in the moonlight.

“To the snow,” Kaldur offered, with a reverent nod.

“To us,” Nyx whispered. The word lingered in the air like a promise.

They all lifted something—bottles, cups, bare hands—and echoed it back: 

“To us.”

The wind rustled their coats. The snow kept falling.

And for a while, they simply were —a knot of teenagers at the edge of the world, hearts too full, cheeks stung pink, caught in the impossible stillness of a winter night on a forgotten beach. They passed the bottles in lazy circles. They sang off-key. They dared each other to eat snowflakes and debated who could build the worst snowman out of sand and slush.

Robin taught Zatanna how to throw a snowball with precision. Connor buried Wally in a makeshift drift while M’gann giggled and floated above them like a mischievous snow sprite. Kaldur helped Artemis up after she slipped, and she tried to pretend she didn’t blush. They were warriors and orphans and experiments and outcasts—but here, now, they were only kids.

Nyx lay flat again, her scarf askew, hair fanned out across the snow-speckled sand like dark ink spilt across a page. Artemis curled up beside her, tucking into the warmth under Nyx’s coat like they were hiding from the world. The stars were hidden behind a gauze of clouds, but the moonlight was enough.

“You ever think about how weird this is?” Nyx murmured, eyes half-lidded. “We should be at sleepovers. Or awkward school dances. But instead, we’re here. In this weird little life. Between battles. Between who we’re supposed to be and who we actually are.”

Artemis turned her face up to the sky. The snow clung to her lashes. “Yeah,” she whispered. “But I wouldn’t trade it. Not for the whole world.”

Nyx smiled, slow and soft. “Me neither.”

Above them, the sea whispered its endless lullaby. The snow fell in sacred silence, weaving itself into memory.

And for a moment, brief and perfect, they were just human. Just young. And just together.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The laughter had quietened into something softer.

Somewhere behind them, Wally was trying to convince Kaldur to sing Bohemian Rhapsody with him. Zatanna was curled up between M’gann and Artemis, her head on M’gann’s shoulder, drawing lazy patterns into the sand with a stick. Connor sat a few feet away, legs stretched out long, watching them all with a faint, amused smile and the bottle tucked loosely in his hand. The moonlight glossed over everything, turning them all into silhouettes against the frost-kissed dunes, glowing like a memory in the making.

Nyx wandered away from the group, crunching over the uneven mix of sand and slush, her boots leaving scattered impressions that the wind was already starting to erase. She wasn’t stumbling, not exactly, but the alcohol hummed in her veins like warmth in winter—loose and soft and lovely.

She turned to look back at them—the team, her strange, chaotic, beautiful family—and her heart clenched with something heavy and quiet. Not sadness, not joy. Just... fullness. Like something inside her had been empty for a long time, and she hadn’t noticed until it wasn’t anymore.

A rustle behind her.

She didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Robin’s footsteps were lighter than anyone else’s—trained, careful, deliberate—but she felt him beside her like a shadow sliding into place. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there with his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, his hood pulled up over his messy black hair, his breath forming pale clouds in the cold.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“Hey,” he murmured back.

They stood side by side in the snow-covered sand, a few metres from the others, their shoulders just brushing when one of them shifted. For a while, they didn’t speak. Just watched the water.

The tide rolled in, quiet and slow, the kind of stillness that made everything feel sacred. The snow was still falling, dusting the curve of Nyx’s scarf and clinging to Robin’s lashes like delicate white stars.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Robin nodded slowly. “Yeah. It really is.”

She glanced over at him. His face was calm in the moonlight, eyes soft behind the edge of his sunglasses. A faint flush coloured his cheeks—not just from the alcohol, but from the cold, from being here . He looked her way, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

Nyx took a breath and let it out in a puff. “You ever feel like the whole world’s just... paused?”

He blinked, and then his mouth curved into a small, crooked smile. “Yeah. Like it’s waiting.”

“For what?”

His voice dropped. “For us to grow up.”

She huffed a laugh, quiet and fond. “God. That’s sad.”

Robin looked back at the waves. “Not really. It’s just... I don’t know. We’re always running, you know? Missions, cover identities, training, lying to everyone we know.” He paused for a moment. “Nights like this—” he shrugged, “—they feel like something out of a dream.”

She let that sink in. Then, in a quieter voice, “I’m glad I get to dream it with you.”

He looked at her again, something unguarded flickering in his eyes. “Me too.”

There was a pause, the good kind, the kind that felt full of everything they weren’t saying but didn’t need to.

Nyx tugged her scarf tighter around her neck and shifted to sit in the snow-dusted sand. “Come on, Boy Wonder. Sit with me before I start waxing poetic about moonlight and teen angst.”

He chuckled and dropped down beside her. “Too late for that.”

They sat close, thighs barely touching, but it was enough. Enough to feel the warmth through the layers of their coats. Enough to feel the trust. She passed him the bottle she'd brought earlier, and he took a small sip, wincing.

“What is this?” he coughed.

“I think it’s vodka. Or some very angry, magicky, version of it.”

He made a face. “I think it’s burning a hole in my lungs.”

“Good,” she grinned. “That means it’s working.”

They both laughed again, quieter this time. Like they were trying not to disturb the snow.

She leaned back on her hands, eyes drifting up to the sky. The stars were peeking through now, dim but present, like shy witnesses to their night. Her breath rose in small puffs, catching the light of the moon.

“I always used to hate snow,” she murmured.

Robin looked over at her. “Really?”

She nodded. “It reminded me of being cold. Of being watched. Of pretending to be the perfect daughter, wishing I was anywhere else but home. Of being the ever-present darkness in a world full of light.”

He watched her quietly, his fingers flexing slightly between them.

“But this…” She gestured around them. “This is different. It’s messy and ridiculous, and we’re all drunk and the beach smells like seaweed and burnt hot chocolate, but it feels… real. Like the kind of night I’ll remember when I’m eighty and yelling at kids to get off my lawn.”

Robin smiled, slowly and fondly. “Yeah. I think I’ll remember this, too.”

She looked over, meeting his gaze again, and this time neither of them looked away.

“Can I tell you something?” she asked, her voice quieter than the sea.

“Anything.”

“I’m scared of what happens when this ends.”

His expression softened. “Nyx…”

“I know it’s not ending now. But someday we’ll grow up. We’ll have to be our real selves again. Whatever that even means. Or big, grown-up Leaguers. And I don’t want to lose this. ” She gestured toward the others—Artemis now snorting as Wally tried to bury himself deeper in snow, M’gann singing some Martian lullaby under her breath while Connor listened.

Robin reached out and took her hand.

Just gently. No theatrics. No heat. Just warmth.

“You won’t lose me,” he said.

She swallowed hard, eyes prickling, her fingers squeezing his in return. “I hope you mean that.”

“I do.”

For a moment, the world was nothing but waves and snow and them. The stars blinked above like they were watching something worth remembering.

Nyx leaned her head on his shoulder, and he tilted his against hers.

No words.

Just breath and heartbeat, and snow.

And the quiet knowing that whatever the world threw at them next, whatever names they had to wear, whatever masks they had to hide behind—they had this.

This moment. This night. Each other.

Forever.

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

The fire had died down hours ago, leaving only faint orange embers nestled beneath the collapsed logs and ash, their glow flickering like a heartbeat in the dark. The snow had slowed to a fine mist of delicate flakes, drifting silently from the sky like falling stars, too lazy to rush the descent. The beach, once filled with laughter and movement, had settled into something sacred and still.

They’d all meant to go back inside, truly. But one by one, wrapped in coats and each other, the team had drifted off, lulled by the cold and the closeness, and the strange, happy fullness of hearts that had never quite known this kind of peace before.

Nyx stirred first.

The chill against her cheeks, the rustle of the sea just metres away, and the quiet crunch of frost forming on the sand beneath her shoe— it was enough to gently stir her from sleep. She blinked slowly, eyelashes dusted with snowflakes, the sky above her slowly warming from indigo to a muted, rose-tinted grey.

She didn’t move at first. Just… breathed.

The cold air bit at her lungs, clean and sharp, but somehow soft. She could hear Artemis’s gentle snoring somewhere to her left, the steady rhythm of Kaldur’s breathing, the occasional murmured dream from M’gann. Connor had one arm draped over Wally, who was curled up like a starfish on his side, still clutching an empty bottle like it was a teddy bear. Zatanna was nestled beside them, one gloved hand resting lightly on Wally’s shin, her dark hair half-covered by a beanie that had clearly not been hers originally — probably swiped from Artemis.

Robin was still by her side, closer than she remembered falling asleep. His head had slumped against her shoulder sometime during the night, and even in sleep, he looked impossibly peaceful. Softer than usual. One of his hands had found hers sometime in the night, fingers loosely entwined in his sleep.

Nyx smiled to herself, cheeks flushed with the cold and something gentler. Something warm.

Her breath came out in a fog as she gently extricated her phone from the inside of her coat. She turned off the flash and snapped a photo — a quiet moment frozen in time. The whole team, sleeping in a haphazard pile of limbs and coats and leftover laughter, snow collecting in the folds of their scarves, faces turned towards each other like planets caught in mutual orbit.

It looked like home.

She turned back toward the horizon, just as the sun began to break free.

It was a shy thing, peeking first in blush-coloured streaks that bathed the clouds in soft gold and lavender, then slowly rising in full, warm defiance of the winter chill. The sunlight spilt across the waves like liquid fire, reflecting off the snow-covered sand in shimmering hues of peach and pale coral. Seabirds called in the distance, their wings slicing the dawn air in lazy arcs, as if even they didn’t want to break the spell of morning.

She sat up slowly, careful not to jostle Robin, who stirred just slightly and then settled again, his face leaning against her shoulder with a sleepy sigh.

Nyx reached for the bottle half-buried in the snow near her boots, smiling at the absurdity of it. One last toast, she thought, even if it was only in her head.

“To us,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath in the morning stillness. “To this messy, beautiful family we have.”

She tucked her phone back into her coat and leaned her head gently against Robin’s once more, letting her eyes close for just a moment longer, as the sun rose higher and the world began again, new and golden and waiting.

The team didn’t know it yet, but this morning would live in their memories for the rest of their lives. A perfect, unexpected moment of teenage freedom, wrapped in snowflakes and sunrise and the comfort of each other.

And for once, the world could wait as the two of them had talked till the night wailed in secrets and the stars who hid in sorrow shone in the gantry of darkness.

Chapter Text

Mount Justice

November 12th – 09:17 EST

The serenity of the snow-covered beach did not last.

A throat cleared. Not a gentle sound, but one honed to precision, a scalpel of authority that sliced clean through the soft, snowy silence. It cracked the morning wide open like thunder through a dream, instinctively triggering a full-body jolt in every teenager present.

Nyx’s eyes snapped open. She sat upright so fast she almost knocked Robin over, her head spinning, breath misting visibly in the air. Her partner groaned beside her, disoriented, hair tousled and defying gravity on one side like he’d been electrocuted mid-nap.

“Rise and shine, campers,” came the calm, glacial voice of Black Canary.

No. No, no, no, no.

Nyx turned her head as if slow movement could grant invisibility. It did not. Black Canary stood at the edge of their snow-littered beach camp, arms folded across her leather jacket, aviator sunglasses catching the morning light in an unforgiving flash. Her golden hair was pulled back, tight and immaculate, the only soft thing about her in that moment.

Behind her, Mount Justice rose like a silent witness, its rocky face frosted over, the familiar slope marred by the aftermath of teenage rebellion—abandoned scarves, empty bottles, mismatched boots, and the fading embers of last night’s fire. It looked like a winter battlefield.

“Oh my god,” Zatanna groaned somewhere in the middle of the human pile. She sounded like she’d been dropkicked into consciousness. “Did we actually sleep out here?”

“You all did,” Black Canary confirmed, voice clipped. “With alcohol, no less. And I’m going to take a wild guess that no mentor signed off on this.”

“I said to pace ourselves,” Kaldur muttered, rubbing his temples with the slow shame of someone reliving a strategic failure.

M’gann blinked in confusion, nestled between Connor and Zatanna, her red hair fluffed out and snow-dusted like a halo. “Did we teleport out here?” she asked dazedly, looking around with wide, sleep-glazed eyes.

Beside them, Wally stretched with a groan—only to realise his hand was still curled, rather tenderly, around Artemis’s waist. They both froze. Their gazes met. Then their eyes flicked down. Then up again.

Wally practically flung himself backwards into the snow, stammering incoherently. Artemis sat bolt upright, clutching her coat like a lifeline, cheeks blazing crimson.

“I wasn’t—he— it’s cold! ” she hissed, brushing snow from her lap as though it had betrayed her.