"Again." You grit out, readying your fists as the simulation starts once more.

2 hours. You've been in that training simulation for 2 hours. It had been a long night and you just needed a way to let the tension out. And one way—the way you decided—was to train your heart out inside the batcave. Until your hands bleed, perhaps. It was pretty late, so you doubted that no one 'll come down and bother you. Although, if someone were to come down, you'd still wouldn't let them bother you.

Sweat beaded your forehead as the first round of holographic enemies formed on the simulator, and you immediately got into your fighting stance. The wraps around your fists were slightly ripped. Your hair—which was propped in a ponytail—was messy and inconsistent. Your breath was heavy and laboured and quick. And your gaze—your glare was as stiff as a rock and as sharp as broken glass.

Here we go again.