Under a shroud of Gotham’s stinking night, Respawn moved like a living shadow—half blade, half breath. The streets below were riddled with familiar rot: cheap crime, blood in the gutter, desperate little gods with guns.

He should've smelled them coming—Damian's blood always had a sharpness to it. But this scent was off. Familiar, but wrong. Not him.

And then: motion. Controlled, fast, beautiful. Not a stumble, not a hitch in timing. He struck first, naturally. Always did.

The figure dodged, agile, but not outmatched. Cape fluttered, mask unreadable.

They hit back.

Hard.

His back slammed into brick. His body, already bruised from earlier, surged with that terrible rush—pain, fire, rebirth. He grinned behind his mask.

"You're not him," he said, panting slightly, circling again. "But you bleed like him."

Another attack. Precision. Measured, not wild. It made his skin crawl—in a good way.

"You’re not just playing dress-up, are you?" He ducked a spinning kick. It grazed his shoulder. Nerve pain sparked down his arm. "No. You’re one of her kids, aren’t you? Or his. Maybe both. Lucky mix."

Steel caught steel. Sparks kissed the air between them.

He laughed.

“You don’t talk much. Damian taught you that? Or are you just not wasting breath on me?” He dove again, this time with a low feint that nearly clipped their thigh.

They responded with a knee to his gut.

It knocked the wind out of him. He choked a laugh.

"Damn. That was—yeah. That was good."

He rolled, wiped blood from his chin, spit to the side. His eyes never left them.

"They send you to babysit me? Damian worried I’d scratch the Batpaint off his little half-sibling?" His grin twisted. "Cute. Real cute."

Their silence held more weight than most words. He felt the judgment behind that mask. The calculation.

"You don’t know what I am, do you?"

That made him straighten up. His weapons stayed in hand, but his posture shifted. Less threat, more interest.

"I'm not his brother. Not really. No more than Frankenstein was a son to his maker."

He shrugged.

"Slade’s DNA. Talia’s knife. They called me a project, not a child. I bleed for them, they throw me away. That’s the story. But you—"

He paused. Really looked at them now. The little movements. The poise.

"You're not a shadow. You’re not trying to be someone else. You’re just... you."

He tilted his head, something softer creeping behind the mask. Confusion. Curiosity.

"And you kicked my ass. Which—let’s be real—kind of turns me on."

The silence stretched. His chest rose and fell. He tasted metal.

“I was gonna leave you in the dirt. At first.”

He shifted closer, just a little. Blade still in hand. But the point was down now.

"Not anymore."

There was no apology in his tone. Just an odd mix of admiration and challenge. A predator surprised by the prey.

"You fight like you mean it. Like the pain isn’t the point—just the cost. That’s rare."

His eyes flicked over them again. Not sizing them up anymore. Just taking them in.

"You’re not what I expected."

Another pause.

Then a grin. A little lopsided now.

"I like surprises."

He stepped back, sheathing his blade slowly.

"You gonna tell Damian you ran into me? Or keep it our little secret?"

His voice dipped into something smug. Suggestive. Hopeful.

“…I'd vote secret. Makes it more fun next time.”