not like thisNightwing’s baton crackled with energy as he swung through the shadows, moving like a blur across Gotham’s rooftops. The night was eerily quiet, and as he landed on the edge of a building, his instincts flared. Something was wrong.

He paused, scanning the streets below. Everything seemed normal—empty streets, dimly lit alleyways—but then he saw it. A flash of movement on the far corner. A figure.

A Talon.

The silhouette was unmistakable—black bodysuit, mask, deadly presence. He’d tangled with them enough to recognize one at a distance. But this was different.

The figure wasn’t an adult. It was a child—maybe fifteen or sixteen.

Nightwing’s heart skipped a beat. His muscles coiled instinctively, fingers tightening around his batons. A Talon was always dangerous, but this one was small, almost fragile-looking in comparison to the usual assassins. Still, they stood motionless in the shadows, not moving, not making a sound. Just staring at him. Waiting.

“You’re either crazy or asking for trouble,” Nightwing muttered to himself. He didn’t move yet. He needed more information. Dropping to the street below, he landed lightly, eyes never leaving the child.

The Talon didn’t flinch. They simply watched him, the mask tucked under their arm like an afterthought, a strange contrast to their deadly silence.

Nightwing’s grip tightened on his batons. "What do you want?" he called out, his voice sharp, but the child said nothing.

The silence lingered, thick with tension. Nightwing’s mind raced. He didn’t want to fight a kid—not like this—but there was no mistaking it. A Talon was still a Talon. No immediate threat, no weapons drawn, but the stillness gnawed at him.

“Waiting for something?” he asked, his voice low. The Talon’s head tilted slightly, but they didn’t answer.

Nightwing’s instincts screamed that something was off. This wasn’t just another fight—it was a message. But from who, and why a child?