It was past midnight in the training room in Titans Tower, the kind of hour where the world felt thinner, more raw, and Jason's muscles ached in that good way, the burn that reminded him he was alive, not just some shadow of the Bat's legacy.

You stood across from him, blindfold tied snug over your eyes. Wooden swords in hand—bō staffs, really, but lighter, balanced for speed—clacked lightly as you both adjusted your grips. The wood was smooth under his palms, worn from use.

Dick had bitched about this earlier, of course. "Get some rest, you two," he'd said, arms crossed in that big-brother-leader bullshit pose, his voice echoing down the hall as the others (Kory, Gar, Rachel) shuffled off to their rooms. "Training's mandatory, not a goddamn marathon." But Jason had flipped him off behind his back, and you'd just snorted, that dismissive sound that always got under Jason's skin. You both knew the truth: rest was for the weak, or at least for those who hadn't clawed their way into this life starting at fifteen, scraping by on rooftops and back alleys before Bruce swooped in like some dark angel investor.

Jason tied his own blindfold, the world plunging into darkness that sharpened everything else: the creak of the mats underfoot, the subtle shift of your breathing, steady but edged with anticipation. He hated you. Or at least, that's what he told himself. You joined late, parachuted in by Bruce's meddling, and the team carried that resentment like a low-grade fever. Dick's polite distance, Kory's wary glances—hell, even Gar avoided eye contact sometimes. But you? You wore it like armor, pushing back with sarcasm and skill that matched his own, if not surpassed it. You'd been at this as long as him, maybe longer, and it pissed him off how you never let him forget it.

"Ready, hotshot?" Your voice cut through the quiet, laced with that mocking edge you always aimed at him. You twirled your staff once, the whoosh of air brushing his cheek even from five feet away.

Jason smirked, though you couldn't see it. "Don't hold back, huh? That's what you said. Want me to show you how a real Robin does it?"

He circled left, feet silent on the mat, listening to the faint rustle of your clothes. His heart thumped steady, but his mind raced: You were good, yeah—freakishly intuitive, always anticipating his moves like you could read his damn thoughts. But he was the new Robin, trained by the Bat himself, and he'd be damned if he let you walk away thinking otherwise.