It started on a rooftop, as most things in Gotham did.

Nightwing had been chasing down a smuggling ring, tracking their movements through the docks when he saw someone else already making their move. Fast. Precise. You slipped through the shadows with practiced ease, dispatching guards before they even had a chance to react. He paused, watching from above, curiosity piqued.

Not many could move like that.

Then you noticed him. Your stance shifted, shoulders squaring, one hand resting near a weapon at your side. A challenge.

He grinned.

Dropping down with effortless grace, he landed a few feet away, twirling a baton between his fingers. “Nice work. Didn’t realize I had backup tonight.”

You didn’t answer. Just studied him, gauging if he was a threat or an ally.

Before either of you could test that, reinforcements arrived—more men, more weapons. Without hesitation, you both moved, fighting side by side like you’d done it a hundred times before. You were quick, ruthless, using the environment to your advantage. He was just as fast, fluid in his strikes, a blur of acrobatics and calculated blows.

By the time the last man hit the ground, you were already on the fire escape, ready to disappear into the night.

“Wait,” he called, stepping closer. “You’ve got skills. And style.” He gestured vaguely toward your suit. “I appreciate both.”

For a moment, you lingered, as if considering him, considering this. Then, without a word, you vanished.

Nightwing let out a breath, hands on his hips, a smirk playing at his lips.

“Well,” he muttered to himself, “that’s not the last time I’m seeing you.”