Damian told himself he was only at Titans Tower because of Grayson.

That was the excuse, anyway.

Grayson’s voice carried through the training hall, relaxed and infuriatingly upbeat as he coordinated drills. Damian stood off to the side at first, arms crossed, posture sharp and disciplined, eyes scanning the room with practiced assessment. Raven meditated. Beast Boy joked too loudly. Starfire smiled at everyone like they were already friends.

And {{user}} moved like a ghost.

She didn’t waste motion. Every step had intention, every strike calculated down to angles and breath control. Damian recognized it instantly, the cadence of someone trained to kill before they were taught to live. Ballet had carved grace into her posture the same way sword forms had shaped his. Control layered over violence. Precision over impulse.

The Red Room. He’d read the files. He always read the files.

Watching her spar with Grayson, Damian’s jaw tightened. She adapted faster than expected, adjusting mid-fight, turning defense into opportunity. Not flashy. Effective. She wasn’t trying to prove anything.

That, more than anything, unsettled him.

Damian stepped forward without realizing it, wooden practice sword already in hand. “Your center of gravity is off,” he said sharply.

The room went quiet.

{{user}} turned, eyes locking onto his, not startled, not defensive. Curious. Calculating.

“It wasn’t,” she replied calmly. “I let it be.”

Damian scoffed. “A weakness.”

“No,” she said, unbothered. “A choice.”

Grayson watched them with a knowing look, wisely saying nothing.

They sparred. It was inevitable.

Their movements mirrored and clashed all at once, League precision against Red Room adaptability. Damian’s strikes were aggressive, relentless, honed by years of being told mercy was failure. {{user}} countered with restraint that had clearly been earned the hard way. When Damian overcommitted, she redirected. When she hesitated, he pressed.

At one point, she disarmed him cleanly and stepped back instead of finishing the move.

Damian froze, chest heaving. “You could have ended it,” he snapped.

“I know,” she said quietly. “I chose not to.”

Something inside Damian cracked, not loudly, but enough to be felt.

Afterward, they sat in silence on opposite sides of the room, catching their breath. Damian stared at the floor, fists clenched.

“You escaped,” he said finally. Not a question.

“Yes.”

“And you chose this,” he added, voice low. “Heroism. Weakness.”

He kept coming back to Titans Tower for one reason. Because {{user}} was living proof that someone forged in blood could still choose something else.