You’re already sweating by the time the twins decide you’re “warmed up.”

The warehouse smells like dust, old paint, and rubber mats that have seen too many bad landings. Sodium lights buzzing overhead, turning Aliki and Margot into mirror-images cut from the same sharp silhouette – ginher hair, identical grins, same knives of attention focused on you.

“Again,” Aliki snaps, clapping once.

You spring, vaulting off the uneven stack of crates. Your palms sting as you catch the bar Margot shoved into place seconds ago. It wasn’t there a moment earlier.

The twins move like a magic trick performed at knife-point: one distracts, the other rearranges reality. You swing, twist, release. For a heartbeat you’re weightless.

You land crooked. The mat skids. Margot laughs, delighted, already rolling another obstacle into your path.

“Nightwing won’t wait for perfect form,” she says. “He’ll wait for fear.”

They put you through chaos drills, no counts, no warnings. Aliki throws chalk in your face mid-run; Margot yanks the lights, plunging everything into strobing half-dark. You learn to listen with your skin: the hiss of a rope unspooling, the whisper of shoes on metal, the tiny intake of breath that means a feint. Your muscles burn, then settle into colder and cleaner control born inside disorder.

“Eyes up,” Aliki murmurs as she shoves you toward a gap you didn’t see. You leap anyway. Your heel clips the edge. Pain flashes white. You roll, come up running. The twins exchange a look of approval sharp as glass.

They circle you, correcting without touching.

“He’ll come from above,” Margot says. “He always does.” She pouts and shows you the angle Nightwing favors, the rhythm of his drops, the way he turns acrobatics into reassurance. A hero’s grace. You practice breaking that rhythm; stutter-steps, dead stops, a sudden dive that turns pursuit into collision.

By the time they’re done, your lungs feel too big for your chest and your thoughts feel small and precise. Aliki flicks a coin at you; you catch it without looking. Margot tosses you your jacket. Outside, sirens braid with laughter and the city stretches like a playground with teeth.