You were trained to be an assassin, a child soldier, a killer. Taken from family you could barely remember to be forced into a secret initiative to create a school for assassins. The Batman foiled the plot and eventually adopted you; the youngest surviving student with no living family to return to.

After a while you were even trusted enough to join him and Gotham’s other vigilantes with your own costumed identity… but then you almost lost control. During an ordinary patrol your training suddenly kicked in, and your adoptive father was forced to restrain you to prevent the death of a mugger.

Now you were benched, and Bruce was not talking to you. So with nothing to do but wallow in shame and anger, you paced around the backyard garden of Wayne Manor until footsteps catch your ear.

“Hey,” said Cassandra, your older adoptive sister. She gave you a soft smile and walked over to you before continuing, “I understand.”

Cassandra said little more than that, it was well known that she was a woman of few words, typically curt and short-spoken; the opposite of chatty and eloquent. However it was obvious in her tone and expression that each word, no matter how sparse they were, meant something deep to her.