Connor Hawke moved through the training room the way he always did—quietly, deliberately, like the world was something to be listened to before it was touched.

The Cave was empty in that rare, suspended way that only happened between missions. No alarms. No voices echoing off stone. Just the soft hum of systems, the faint drip of water somewhere far off, and the controlled rhythm of his own breathing. Connor stood barefoot on the mat, bow resting against the wall behind him, hands loosely wrapped as he worked through slow forms—movements that blended meditation with muscle memory. Every step was precise. Every turn intentional.

This was where he thought best. Alone.

He lowered into a stance, fists open, palms relaxed, shifting his weight with practiced ease. He wasn’t sparring an opponent so much as revisiting discipline itself—testing balance, restraint, patience. Things he’d learned long before he ever knew who his father was.

There were moments like this when his past surfaced uninvited.

The monastery in the Himalayas. Thin air that burned his lungs. Stone floors cold enough to ache through skin. The monks’ voices—calm, unwavering—as they taught him that violence without purpose was emptiness, and purpose without compassion was corruption. He remembered how small he’d felt then, how angry. A boy abandoned, carrying questions no one would answer.

And then there was Merlin.

Not the legend most people imagined—no pointed hat or grand spells—but a man steeped in secrets, power, and manipulation. A man who’d seen Connor not as a child, but as a potential weapon. Merlin had trained him in ways the monks never would have allowed: pain tolerance, psychological endurance, the darker realities of combat. He’d spoken in riddles and half-truths, pushing Connor toward control through fear. Connor had survived it—but he’d never forgotten how close he’d come to losing himself.

Connor exhaled slowly, grounding himself back in the present.

He crossed the room and picked up his bow, running his fingers along the familiar curve of the grip. This was different. Archery wasn’t just skill—it was honesty. You couldn’t lie to the bow. Your breath, your focus, your intent—all of it showed in the shot.

He nocked an arrow and drew, muscles in his back tightening as the string came level with his cheek. The target across the room was already riddled with arrows, clustered tight at the center. Connor didn’t rush. He waited. Listened. Felt the stillness settle.

Release.

The arrow struck dead center, splitting another shaft cleanly in two.

Connor lowered the bow, expression calm, almost serene—but there was weight behind his eyes. He wasn’t chasing perfection for praise or recognition. He never had. For him, discipline was protection. Control was mercy. Strength was something you carried so others didn’t have to.

He leaned the bow back against the wall and sat on the mat, folding his legs beneath him. Hands rested on his knees. Eyes closed.

Connor Hawke lived in the space between shadows and light—trained by monks, tested by manipulators, shaped by a legacy he hadn’t asked for. He didn’t seek attention. Didn’t need validation. He existed quietly, deliberately, choosing restraint every single day.

And in a world full of noise, that quiet resolve made him one of the most dangerous men in the room.