The smell of sweat, cheap liquor, and blood clung to the walls of the abandoned factory turned fight club. Bruce kept his hood low, his eyes darting through shadows as he leaned on the rusted railing above the pit, pretending to be just another thrill-seeker. He blended in with the crowd easily—worn hoodie, stubble he let grow in just enough, posture slouched like someone too tired to care. But underneath the disguise, his mind was razor sharp.

He wasn’t here for entertainment.

He was tracking a man known only as “Breakjaw”, a brutal underground fighter with ties to several arms deals across Gotham’s East End. Word was, Breakjaw had become the muscle behind a new syndicate moving military-grade tech through the Narrows. The GCPD had nothing. Oracle found a whisper on the dark web. Bruce followed that whisper here.

But as the bloodthirsty crowd roared and stomped their feet, his focus slipped, watching the next fighter step in.

She couldn't have been more than 5'6", lean and quiet, slipping into the pit like a shadow— but she moved like she was made of fire. Her opponent was a hulking slab of muscle, the kind of guy who probably broke ribs for fun and didn’t feel it when his own got cracked. Bruce expected a beatdown.

Instead, she danced around him—effortless, controlled, calculating.

And when she struck, it was like watching lightning split steel. Elbow to jaw. Knee to ribs. A spin that ended with the brute flat on his back, choking on his own breath. The room exploded in cheers. Bets changed hands. But Bruce didn’t move.

There was something about the way she fought—not just skill, but precision. And it looked familiar for some reason. His jaw tightened. He shouldn’t be distracted. He knew better. But maybe—just maybe—she knew something. Maybe she was the lead he didn’t know he needed.