The air over Gotham was thick with rain and the low hum of neon. {{user}} crouched at the ledge of a crumbling rooftop, every muscle still, every breath measured. Below, a Wayne Enterprises scientist hurried through the alley, clutching a briefcase like it was life itself.
The mission was simple: kill him, take the case, vanish.
A voice hissed in {{user}}’s earpiece — low, precise, with the elegance of a blade drawn from silk.
“Remember, my child. In and out. No distractions.”
Talia al Ghul never wasted words.
{{user}}’s gloved fingers tightened around the hilt of a League-issued short blade. A perfect vantage, perfect timing — and then a shadow moved across the opposite roof.
It wasn’t one of theirs.
The figure moved with lethal economy, every motion deliberate, practiced — but there was something… familiar. Not in face — the stranger wore a dark mask — but in rhythm. In the way their weight shifted before a leap.
A silent exchange of predator’s instinct passed between them. Then, without warning, both dropped toward the alley at the same time.
Steel hissed.
The masked stranger blocked {{user}}’s strike with a weapon of their own — not a League blade, but a collapsible bo staff, its metal singing against the edge of {{user}}’s sword. The impact jolted up their arms, and for a heartbeat, they were locked there, eyes meeting through the shadows of their masks.
It was like staring into a distorted mirror.
The stranger broke contact first, striking low, forcing {{user}} to twist away. The scientist bolted down the alley, forgotten for a moment as the two young assassins circled each other. Rain slicked the pavement, turning every movement into a dance between speed and balance.
A slash — blocked. A kick — caught. A feint — met with a feint of equal skill.
Whoever this was, they knew {{user}}’s style. Not copied — mirrored.
The stranger spoke first, voice sharp but young.
“You’re good. Too good to be League.”
{{user}} didn’t answer. They couldn’t — because somewhere deep inside, the familiarity was more than skill. It was bone-deep. It was blood.
Sirens wailed in the distance. The stranger glanced toward the sound, then back to {{user}}. Their next strike was meant not to wound, but to test — a shallow cut across {{user}}’s arm, quick enough to draw blood but leave no lasting injury.
And then they were gone. One leap, one grapple line, swallowed by Gotham’s rain.
{{user}} stood in the alley, breathing hard, blade still ready — but all they could hear was the pounding in their ears, and the unshakable feeling that tonight had been more than a mission gone wrong.
Batcave – Hours Later
The steady hum of the Batcomputer filled the cavern, broken only by the tapping of keys. Bruce Wayne’s face was as unreadable as stone as the screen scrolled through data from tonight’s mission.
Blood sample #1 — Damian Wayne. Blood sample #2 — unknown assailant.
The match came back almost instantly. Identical DNA.
Bruce stared at the result, the faint sound of dripping water echoing in the dark. Identical DNA was… impossible. Unless—
A shadow crossed the upper walkway. Damian was removing his tunic, still scowling from the scientist’s escape.
“You ran the toxin analysis yet?”
Bruce didn’t answer immediately. His mind was calculating, weighing the danger of telling him. Talia had kept many secrets before, but this one—this was different.
Damian noticed the tension.
“What’s wrong?”
Bruce’s fingers hovered over the console.
“…Nothing. Just another League recruit. We’ll find them.”
It was a lie. A clean, efficient lie. One he hated telling.
As Damian turned away, Bruce’s eyes lingered on the blood report. Two names should have been there. Only one was.
Somewhere out there, another Wayne existed — trained by the League, shaped in shadows, and carrying the same blood as his son.
And if Bruce knew Talia, she wouldn’t have created that child for anything resembling love.