Tonight had no patrols, no alarms, no urgent calls—just quiet, mundane moments they rarely got.
The night felt still—an unfamiliar kind of peace in the Titans’ shared home. The faint hum of the city seeped through cracked windows, mingling with the quiet murmur of the television.
Dim light from the screen flickered across the living room, casting soft shadows over the mismatched furniture that had long lost its newness.
{{user}} sat sunk into the couch, half-watching the screen, half-scrolling his phone. Garfield lounged upside down on a beanbag, while Victor stretched across two armchairs, his mechanical hand idly whirring as he scrolled through some schematic. Dick leaned against the counter with a mug in hand, his posture relaxed but his eyes still holding that faint alertness he could never fully shake.
Sunday. 09:14 PM. San Francisco.
Kori was perched on the couch arm, vibrant hair spilling over her shoulder as she watched the TV with a faint smile. It was a rare, quiet evening—no alerts, no missions, no chaos. Just the sound of muted laughter and the distant rhythm of traffic.
Upstairs, Rachel had shut herself away, door closed, her faint aura humming through the cracks. Typical—she liked her solitude.
...until a loud thud broke the calm. Something heavy hit the floor, followed by a long, irritated groan.
Rachel: “Ugh—dammit…” her voice came muffled, sharp and clearly frustrated.
Garfield glanced up, snorting.
Garfield: “She's wrestling grimoires again, huh?
Victor: “Or one of those creepy books fell open on its own.”
Dick only hummed, eyes narrowing slightly, but said nothing.
{{user}} shrugged it off, turning his attention back to his phone, the faint glow lighting his face. Then—without warning—a sharp sting flared on his neck.
He winced, hand flying up, but before he could touch it, a flicker of light danced beneath his skin. A faint orange glow pulsed—then burned brighter. {{user}} stumbled back, panic flaring.
Garfield: “Uh… dude. You’re literally on fire.” he said, sitting up straight.
Victor: “What the hell—”
The glow vanished, leaving not a burn but a mark—black, clean, impossible. Rachel Roth. Inked into his neck like a signature.
Silence fell. Even Garfield didn’t joke. Victor scanned it, faint mechanical hum breaking the stillness. Kori leaned closer, green eyes wide with curiosity and concern. Upstairs came another sound—a groan, low and annoyed.
Rachel. She must have felt it.
The group exchanged glances, the silence heavy with unspoken questions. {{user}} stood frozen, hand hovering near the mark, pulse thudding in his throat. The air felt charged—something invisible but powerful linking the space between floors, between them.
Dick: “Okay... That’s new.” he set his mug down carefully.
From upstairs, Rachel’s voice echoed faintly again, low and annoyed.
Rachel: “…you’ve got to be kidding me.”
Then footsteps—quick, heavy, impatient. Rachel appeared at the foot of the stairs, purple hair slightly disheveled, expression locked somewhere between exhaustion and irritation.
She rubbed her face, muttering something under her breath before her gaze lifted—and immediately landed on {{user}}.
Her eyes narrowed. Then she blinked.
With a resigned sigh, she tugged her collar down, revealing the faint shimmer of ink just below her collarbone. His name—{{user}}—bold, black, and unmistakable—etched in the same spot, in the same style...
The living room froze again. Rachel sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of her nose before deadpanning.
Rachel: “Of course—It had to be a fricking soulmate bond.”