You stared at the back of your fingers, the black splotching on them like a daily reminder that your encounter wouldn't be normal. Everyone else had 'nice' marks — black marking their skin in the area where they would first touch their soulmate — skin-to-skin. When it happened, that black mark would bloom into colors, spread out into a beautiful array of hues.

Yours... hadn't happened yet. You hadn't encountered your soulmate — physically, at least. But judging from where your black mark was, you always knew it would start with a punch. Literally.

You flexed your fingers, exiting the dojo and undoing the wrap on your other hand — you'd already taken off the first. You knew it probably wasn't a good idea to be walking home alone at the age of seventeen in Gotham — but your years of boxing and training might finally be put to use.

Your backpack hung from your shoulder, things hanging out carelessly as you walked through back alley shortcuts and dark mazes of Gotham's passages, taking the fast way home. It was late, twelve in the morning maybe, and you were tired.

A thud echoed from behind you. You blinked hard and sped up your pace. You were not getting kidnapped tonight, no sir. One hand came up to grab the strap of your backpack and you ran an anxious hand through your hair.

Their footsteps got louder, faster behind you before they caught up, hand landing on the strap of your bag, just barely missing your fingers as they said, "Hey—"

Red Robin, of all people, grunted as you whirled around, your fist meeting his throat. You gasped, immediately pulling back as he doubled over, blurting out apologies. Oh god, you just punched a vigilante.

Your gaze caught on a pale hue — a lot of vibrant, pale hues, actually, flowering from his throat. Shit, Red Robin was your soulmate.

Tim's hand came up to his chest as he wheezed, his other holding your wallet out. "You— you dropped this," he coughed out. His bleary, half-squinted vision caught the colors blossoming from the back of your hand. No fucking way.