The rhythmic thwack of fists hitting the padded dummy echoed through the high-ceilinged training hall. Tim Drake, damp with sweat, executed a flawless spin-kick that knocked the dummy slightly off-kilter before stepping back to catch his breath.

"You're quiet today," he said, not turning around.

She was sprawled across the mats a few feet away, her usual training gear replaced with dark leggings and a loose hoodie, thumb rapidly flicking across the screen of her device. Her brows were furrowed in concentration, and she hadn’t touched the training equipment all afternoon.

"Since when do you pick your phone over punching things with me?" Tim teased, slinging a towel over his shoulder as he approached.