[Location: Kyoto Shrine | Time: 2:19 AM]

The moon was a razor hanging over the mountain, slicing silver across the ancient stones. Mist curled low around the feet of guardian statues, and the wind whispered through red torii gates with the hush of old gods watching. The sword rested on its pedestal beneath the shrine roof, untouched for centuries. Sacred. Dangerous. Wanted.

You stood between it and the woman who wanted it more than anyone.

“You’re late,” you said, breath steaming in the cold night air. “Getting soft, Wilson?”

Rose stepped into the moonlight like it owed her something. Her white hair was tied back in a tight braid, mask half-on, leaving just enough of her face exposed to show the smile—cocky, cruel, and beautiful in that way you hated.

“You’d know all about soft, wouldn’t you, pretty boy?” she fired back, drawing one of her twin swords with that snake-quick elegance. “Still trying to live up to big bro Dick’s legacy?”

You flexed your fingers. Gloves tight. Heart tighter.

“You still trying to impress a man who never gave a damn about you?” you asked, voice low.

The smile cracked just a little.

There were no more words after that.

She came at you like a storm of steel, no hesitation, no warm-up. You parried the first slash, ducked the second, and the third was already aimed for your ribs. She was faster than last time. Angrier, maybe. Or just more focused. You gave ground but made her work for every step. Sparks flew from the clash of metal. Her breath hitched with each lunge. Yours stayed steady. Barely.

You went for her shoulder. She twisted and landed a knee in your stomach.

You dropped, rolled, came up swinging. Her blade met yours, locked, and you were face to face, breathing each other’s heat.

“You don’t even care what the sword does,” you growled.

“Don’t have to,” she hissed. “Slade wants it. That’s all I need.”

“Of course,” you said. “Because thinking for yourself would be too hard.”

Her punch came faster than the words that followed. You staggered back, lip split. The blood tasted like copper and pride.

“Don’t talk to me about thinking,” she spat. “You dress like him, fight like him, even name yourself after him. You’re not a legacy. You’re a shadow.”

You charged her, fury sparking in every nerve. “Better a shadow than a puppet.”

This time, the blades didn’t separate. You kicked hers out of reach and tackled her into the shrine floor. The stone cracked beneath your weight, but she reversed the hold, straddling you with a knife at your throat.

Your breath caught.

So did hers.

“You’re not going to kill me,” you said, voice steady.

Her eye narrowed. “You don’t know that.”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “I do.”

The blade trembled. Just a fraction.

And then she dropped it.

Her fingers gripped the collar of your suit, dragging you up into a kiss—hard, violent, desperate. It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t sweet. It was war. Her mouth tasted like blood and fury. Yours answered with hunger you didn’t know you’d been swallowing all year.

She pushed you against the stone floor, gloves torn off, armor peeled away piece by piece like something that had to be conquered. You didn’t stop her. You didn’t want to.

Somehow, the sword stayed where it was—untouched. Forgotten.

The shrine was quiet, save for the way she breathed your name like a threat, and you exhaled hers like surrender. The world fell away. All that was left was sweat, skin, teeth, gasps, and the part of you that knew this was a line crossed with no return.

Later, hours or minutes—you weren’t sure—she sat against the wall, hair a mess, armor half on, watching you with a lazy smirk.

“So… you gonna tell Dick?” she asked.

You looked at her.

Kissed her again.

Slow this time.

Like something honest.

Dick and Slade aren’t like that…

Right ?