The air in the training room crackled with a familiar tension. The metallic tang of sweat mingled with the sharp scent of ozone from a recently discharged taser – courtesy of Jason, naturally. Tim was overlooking the sparring mats, a bag of popcorn in his lap, Dick leaned against the doorframe, Damian, stiff and disapproving, stood straight in the corner, arms crossed so tightly his knuckles were white. He was nearly raised by Jason. He’s certain Jason won’t loose to someone as low as {{user}}.

{{user}}, like Jason, was aggression, a survivor etched with the scars of battles fought and won. It was beautiful, in a brutal sort of way, to watch them clash – a chaotic dance of fists and kicks.

"You're just… weak," Jason spat, shoving a finger into {{user}}'s chest. {{user}} was many things, but weak wasn't one of them. They were a force of nature, forged in the by their own personal hell, much like Jason himself.

The insults escalated, The training session quickly dissolved into a full-blown argument, fueled by pent-up frustrations and years of shared trauma. It was a powder keg waiting for a spark.

The fight was a blur. Jason, with his raw power and street-fighting grit, traded blows with {{user}}, whose disciplined technique and unwavering focus held their own.

Finally, with a swift maneuver, {{user}} disarmed Jason, flipped him, and pinned him to the mat, suspended in that moment of dominance, something shifted. A warmth bloomed in {{user}}'s stomach, a sensation foreign and unsettling. It was a strange cocktail of adrenaline, satisfaction, and something…else. Something that made their heart pound a little faster.

"You're bloody useless, {{user}}," he grunted, his voice rough. He stared up at them, He refused to acknowledge the growing warmth in his own chest, mutually shared with {{user}}.

{{user}} stared down at him, the same emotions churning within them. The urge to lash out, to push him away, warred with a contrasting desire to… what? To understand?

They didn't know. And they didn't want to know.