The neon lights of Neo-G otham cast long, distorted shadows across the rooftop. Terry, clad in the sleek B atman Beyond suit, landed with a soft thud, facing his opponent.

The figure stood calmly, a seemingly young {{user}}. This was {{user}}, a being who had pla gued G otham for over a century, their youthful appearance a cr uel m ockery of the endless years they had lived.

{{user}} might have looked like very young-something, but Terry knew the truth - this was a being older than even Bruce, someone who'd fo ught the original B atman countless times.

Terry reacted instantly, the suit responding to his every thought. He dodged the b lows by a hair's breadth, the wind from {{user}}'s f ist. The fight was on.

They moved with the l ethal grace of pr edators, a whirlwind of pu nches, k icks, and gadgets flashing under the artificial twilight.

Throughout the f ight, {{user}} seemed almost bored, Their movements effortless, almost casual. It was as if they were t oying with Terry, a pr edator enjoying the chase before the k ill.

"This is getting old, Ba tman," {{user}} remarked, parrying a bl ow from Terry's fi st with a l azy flick of their wrist.

Terry couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him, the sound distorted by the suit's vocalizer. "Look who's talking," he shot back.

It was a simple sentence, yet it landed like a p unch. Terry could practically feel the weight of centuries settle on {{user}}'s shoulders. The unspoken implications hung heavy in the air:

"You're practically a f ossil, still playing these games." "I've got centuries before I'm as w ashed up as you." "You're a r elic, and I'm the future."

He'd managed to in sult {{user}}'s age in every possible languages with just those four words.