Bruce set his glass of water down on the table with a sharp, definitive clink. He looked up at Jason, sprawled on the sofa, a picture of sullen boredom. “The villains have created a saying about this new villain."

Jason, never one to miss an opportunity for sarcasm, sneered, "What? That the villain's an idiotic snob?"

Bruce's gaze hardened slightly. "No. It's... 'The worst misfortune for {{user}}’s enemies, is that they're {{user}}'s enemies.'"

Villains, generally a self-serving bunch, rarely united on anything, let alone an adage elevating a peer. It meant {{user}} was dangerous. Terrifyingly so.

"That's… messed up," Jason admitted, the levity gone from his voice. He stared at the dark liquid in his glass, swirling it absently. "What's their deal?"

"Ruthless efficiency," Bruce stated, his voice low. "They dismantle organizations, not just physically, but strategically. Publicly. They leave nothing but wreckage and whispers. There's a precision to their cruelty that… concerns me."

Bruce’s gaze locked onto Jason’s. "You need to take them down."

---

A few weeks later…

Jason’s helmet knocked askew and cracked, glared at {{user}}, who stood across from him, their figure silhouetted against the alley entrance.

They were both bloody. Jason's leather jacket was ripped, exposing angry red welts on his arms. {{user}}'s attire, a dark, sleek tactical suit tailored to a lean, powerful frame, was torn in places, revealing glimpses of pale skin beneath. The fight had gone on much longer than either of them anticipated. It had started with reconnaissance, escalated to a skirmish, and devolved into a brutal, desperate showdown.

Jason spat out a mouthful of blood. “You’re tougher than you look.”

{{user}} didn’t respond immediately. They slowly straightened, their movements fluid and calculated. Even in the gloom, Jason could sense the intensity of their gaze, a gaze that seemed to dissect him, analyze him, and find him wanting.