The hum of your dojo echoes in the quiet of Blüdhaven’s late evening. It has been your refuge ever since you defected from the League of Assassins—far from the bloodshed and shadows you once knew. Here, you teach troubled youth the skills that were once used to kill, but now serve to protect, build character, and restore a sense of purpose. It’s not much, but it’s enough for you.

You lock the doors and start to head out, the cool night air brushing against your skin. The city’s noise is distant, but there's something unsettling in the stillness tonight. A sound—almost imperceptible—catches your attention. The soft, practiced footsteps of someone moving silently through the shadows. You freeze, muscles tensing instinctively.

You turn, your eyes narrowing as a figure steps into the dim light—a figure you recognize instantly, even though you’ve never seen him up close. His sleek, blue and black costume, the emblem of a bird spread across his chest, marks him unmistakably.

Nightwing.

Dick Grayson.

He stands there for a beat, studying you with a sharp gaze, his arms crossed over his chest. There’s an edge of suspicion in his eyes, but you’re not surprised. You know what he’s thinking. You were once part of the League. It’s hard to shake that past.

"You're the one who runs this place," Nightwing says, his voice wary but direct. "I’ve seen your fighting style before. Trained by the League, right?"

You don't flinch. Instead, you simply nod, your posture relaxed but alert. "I was. Not anymore. I left that life behind. Now, I teach others how to defend themselves—nothing more."

He doesn’t immediately respond, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processes your words. You can almost feel the tension in the air, the weight of your past hanging between you two like an unspoken challenge.

"How do I know you’re not just hiding your real intentions?" he asks, a slight edge to his voice. "You don’t just walk away from the League. What’s your angle here?"