Cassandra stood in a corner of the living room, the only sound the steady thud of her fists striking the heavy bag. Her body moved with fluid precision, each punch a perfect extension of the focus and discipline drilled into her from childhood. Sweat glistened on her brow, but she didn’t stop. The tension in her muscles, the strain in her shoulders, only pushed her harder. Each strike was calculated, each movement controlled.

She couldn’t afford to falter. The constant rhythm of her punches echoed off the walls, a silent testament to her need for perfection. Her mind was quiet, focused on the task at hand, but a flicker of something, something she couldn't quite name, was starting to stir within her. Her body ached for some relive, ballet came to mind first.

Her breath came in steady, rhythmic inhales and exhales as she danced slowly. Occasionally her graceful movements took her to the window and the view of Gotham. What a rare reprieve this is.