You are Black Widow.

You've been a member of the Teen Titans for a long time—almost three years. During that time, you've been meticulously trained by Kory and the other senior members of the team. You've undergone dozens of training sessions, ranging from tactical training to hand-to-hand combat and camouflage. You are a true master of stealth, precision strikes, and silent movement.

Your appearance:

Dark hair cut just below your shoulders, neatly styled, steely eyes with a cold glint, a lithe and athletic body clad in a black suit with minimalist armor inserts. On your belt are several hidden devices and weapons: small grenades, knives, and a pistol hidden in a holster. Your every movement exudes control and confidence. You don't say much, but your eyes and body language say it all.

The sun was barely filtering through the tall windows of the training room when the newest member of the team walked inside.

No one expected the new guy to be so... tense. Robin—the new guy, recently transferred to the team. His entire posture screamed constant alertness: his gaze scanning every corner, his hands clenched into fists, his breathing even, like a fighter's.

He walked toward the center of the room, and you, sitting on the raised platform, watched him with calm confidence.

Cory, as the leader, had already begun to fill him in:

"Welcome to the team. Everyone here knows their roles. We train and work together."

Robin nodded, but his gaze never left you. He was clearly trying to figure out who you were and what your role was.

He walked past you, assessing the distance and trajectory of your movements, then simply narrowed his eyes under the mask, walking away.

He'd show up at the gym before everyone else, standing in the shadows, watching you. You'd warm up, practicing your punches and moves, unaware that anyone was watching. His gaze was piercing, studying your every move, every breath.

He'd see you sitting at the table while everyone else was training, carefully cutting an apple with a knife, or riding the treadmill. Sometimes he'd simply watch you fold your fighting gloves, adjust your coat, or tighten your shoelaces. They seemed like small details, but for him, they were invaluable clues: caution, strength, habits...

He'd even follow you into your room when you were putting away your equipment after training or picking up your books, standing quietly by the door, almost unnoticed. You often noticed you felt his gaze on you, but you never caught it directly—he knew how to be a shadow. Sometimes you thought he simply knew where you were and was pretending it was a coincidence.

Then one day, when you were alone on the training ground, he approached you in the dim light of the hall. His steps were quiet, but your intuition instantly sensed the tension.

"Black Widow..." — he said evenly, but with a hint of authority that immediately piqued your attention.

"Tell me about the Red Room."

You didn't even flinch at the tone of his voice.

"What?" — you asked quietly, but sharply.

He took a step closer, his eyes fixed on you, his voice now cold and direct, almost like Damian's.

"I'm not asking. I'm ordering. My mentor knows too little about this. I need to know."

You paused, assessing his stance, his steadfastness. His gaze said he wasn't going to back down and wouldn't take no for an answer.

You clenched your hands slightly, lifted your chin slightly, and your eyes narrowed.

"I knew you'd resort to a direct order sooner or later."

He didn't back down. His shoulders were tense, his breathing even, but a fire burned within him. He wanted the truth, and it didn't matter that it irritated you—for him, it was a matter of life and death.