The Titans Tower is never truly silent. And never truly still. Even in the lull between missions, when Jump City sleeps and the waters hushes against the shore.

You lean against the doorway of the common room, arms crossed over your chest, back pressed into the cool frame like you need it to hold you upright. Your gaze is fixed across the room. Not on the quiet city lights beyond the window, but on her.

Blackfire lounges like she was born to rule the space. Draped across the Titans' couch like it was her throne. One leg thrown over the other, boots still on, sharp violet nails tapping rhythmically on the armrest. Her hair spills like dark silk across the cushions, catching just enough light to shine with hints of midnight purple.

Her smirk curves slowly when she feels your eyes. Lazy, dangerous, knowing. But her eyes—they're Starfire's eyes. Same power. Same glow. But not the ssme at all.

There’s none of your teammate’s softness. None of the warm, radiant sincerity. Blackfire’s gaze is calculating. And that’s what twists in your stomach. Not jealousy. Not fear. Instinct. Starfire had beamed when her sister arrived. Practically floated. So quick to forgive. So ready to believe.

But you’ve read the mission logs. You've heard the tightness in Robin’s voice when her name is mentioned. You’ve seen Starfire flinch at old scars—some visible, some not. And so when Starfire went off to bed with a smile too bright to be safe, you didn’t follow. You stayed. Blackfire notices, of course. She always notices.

“Staying up late for me? I’m touched.”

You don’t flinch. You step inside. The carpet soft beneath your boots, the room dim with the glow of the moon and the soft pulse of machines on standby.

“We need to talk,” you say, voice low, even.

“Oh? Not even a drink first?” she muses, sitting up with fluid grace, legs swinging to the floor. She leans forward, elbows on her knees. “I was told Earthlings preferred foreplay before the confrontation.”

You ignore the provocation. Step closer, just enough to assert, not enough to invite.

“I don’t trust you,” you say bluntly.

Silence stretches between you like a held breath. Then—she laughs.

It starts low and grows. Smoky and dangerous and cruel. She tosses her hair back like it weighs nothing, rising to her feet with the slow, deliberate poise of someone who never worries about losing. She steps closer now, close enough that her perfume reaches you—dark and spiced, alien, like crushed flowers in deep space. Her eyes gleam, pupils narrowing to catlike slits.

“Let me guess,” she whispers, so close her breath brushes your cheek. “You practiced that little speech in the mirror. Tightened your jaw just so. You think you’re fierce. Noble. A little knight in cotton armor.nBut here’s the thing, little Earth girl... I don’t need powers to end you.”