Terry McGinnis crouched on a rooftop, the neon lights of Neo-Gotham flickering beneath him. The silent call in his comm buzzed—Bruce's voice sharp as ever. “She’s on her way. Play nice.” Terry rolled his eyes. “I’m always nice.”

From the shadows, she emerged—sleek suit, crimson trim, and a utility belt that looked hand-crafted. “The name’s {{user}},” she said, pulling down her mask. “My father was Nightwing.” Terry blinked. “Well, that explains the attitude.”

They dropped into the alleys together, tracking a smuggling ring that had been moving high-tech weapons through the city. {{user}} moved like she’d been trained since birth—graceful, precise, confident. Terry matched her pace but couldn’t help noticing she didn’t wait for backup.

Inside the warehouse, lasers flickered and henchmen opened fire. {{user}} dove into the fray, her escrima sticks lighting up with crackling energy. Terry followed, throwing a Batarang to disable the security grid.

“You always this reckless?” he asked, ducking a plasma shot. She smirked. “Says the guy in a jet-powered batsuit.”

By the time the dust settled, they stood surrounded by unconscious thugs and shattered tech. {{user}} extended a gloved hand. “Not bad, new Bat//man.” Terry shook it, grinning. “Not bad yourself, legacy.”

Back on the rooftop, Bruce’s voice echoed again. “She reminds me of her father.” Terry looked at her disappearing silhouette. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “I can see that.”