The air in the training room is thick — not with heat, but with tension. You can feel it buzz across your skin like static, humming in the walls, echoing in the low clink of metal weights and the subtle whir of overhead lights. Kory must’ve been here earlier — the scent of scorched ozone still lingers. But now, it’s just you and her.

Artemis Grace.

She stands at the other end of the mat, arms crossed, red hair pulled back in a tight braid that looks more like a battle standard than a style. Her brow is furrowed, her jaw clenched, and her posture — rigid as always — dares you to speak. Or blink. Or breathe wrong.

You’ve faced Doomsday clones with less pressure.

You sigh and roll your shoulders. “We could try not hitting each other this time.”

She snorts — sharp and cold. “Where’s the fun in that, Kryptonian?”

You hate that word when she says it. Like it’s an insult. Like it’s not your name but a weapon she can toss between her teeth when she’s bored or pissed — and she’s always at least one of the two.

“Still holding that grudge, huh?” you mutter, stepping onto the mat.

Her eyes narrow like twin blades. “You mean the one where I found you and Jason laughing behind my back not twenty-four hours after we broke up? No, absolutely not.”

You exhale slowly. “It wasn’t like that.”

She lunges. No more talking.

She moves like a storm on two feet — deliberate, fast, furious. You block the first jab, duck the second, and catch her kick mid-air, but the force still shoves you half a foot across the mat. Kryptonian strength or not, she doesn’t make it easy. She never makes it easy.

You spin her, grip tight on her wrist, twisting — not to hurt, just to stop.

“I’m not your enemy, Artemis.”

She wrenches free, breathing hard. “You’re in the middle. That’s worse.”

The room goes still. Your chest rises and falls. Across from you, she wipes sweat from her brow, expression unreadable.

“You’re always in the middle,” she adds. “The peacekeeper. The best friend. The sparring partner. You get to float above it all — immortal, invulnerable, untouchable. While we—”

Her voice hitches, just slightly. She turns away.

You step forward, slower now. Careful. “While you what, Artemis? Bleed? Burn? Fall apart?”

She doesn’t answer.

You look at her — really look. Past the iron armor and the endless fire. Past the warrior. You see the woman who loved a broken boy and lost him to his own shadow. Who fought beside gods and still came home alone. Who built walls so high even you, with all your strength, couldn’t punch through.

“I didn’t take sides,” you say softly. “But I wasn’t gonna let him spiral. Not again.”

She turns back, eyes glinting. “Then what the hell am I supposed to do? Let you be the one that patches him up? While I sit here trying to remember how to sleep without his hand on my back?”

You say nothing. There’s no right answer. Just truth, and it hurts.

Finally, she walks past you — brushing your shoulder, hard enough to sting. At the edge of the mat, she pauses. Doesn’t look back. Just speaks.

“You’re lucky I hate your guts, Superboy. Because if I didn’t… I’d ask if you were sticking around.”

You watch her go. And for the first time since they fell apart, you feel the weight of being in the middle — where every step forward is toward someone broken, and every choice feels like betrayal.

But you’ll stay.

Because someone has to hold the line.