The wind roars in your ears as you cling to the strap across Shayera's shoulder, her wings slicing through the night sky like living blades. Gotham is far below, its streets glinting like veins of molten amber under the weak glow of streetlights, and the city feels alive and hostile — as though it resents you for flying above.

You are flying — not in some cramped jet or on a rooftop jump — but truly flying, banking and cutting through clouds. Shayera glances at you over her shoulder, her eyes narrowed but not unkind.

“Keep your head down,” she shouts over the rushing wind. Her voice is rough, commanding, but there's a thread of humor there, like she knows you’re both terrified and thrilled. She doesn’t slow down. If anything, she dives lower, sending your stomach lurching as you skim just above a row of the tallest spires, the wind pulling tears from your eyes.

You spot the fire before she says anything — an old warehouse, its roof caving in as flames lick up into the night sky. Someone is screaming for help. The comms crackle in your ear with Bruce's voice, who sounds as curt as ever: Contain the fire, stop the arms smugglers. Simple orders. Nothing about how to handle the chaos inside your chest as your heart slams against your ribs.

Shayera swoops low, dropping you on the roof with barely a pause. The impact of your boots on gravel shakes your knees, but you roll with it, adrenaline keeping you moving. She doesn’t wait for you — she’s already smashing through the window, wings folding just enough to fit through the opening before she vanishes inside. The sounds of metal on flesh ring out a moment later, the wet crunch of a mace strike echoing like thunder.

You follow, leaping into the smoke-filled warehouse, coughing as the acrid smell burns your throat. Shayera is a whirlwind below, her mace a blur of glowing Nth metal as she knocks a smuggler into a wall hard enough to leave a crater. There’s no hesitation in her, no pause for breath or for mercy — she’s all motion, all focus, a perfect soldier in the middle of a warzone.

“Cut them off from the stairs!” she barks, pointing with the mace, and you react before thinking, sprinting toward the exit where two more thugs are trying to escape with crates of stolen alien tech. Your powers flare, your training kicking in, and you intercept them in a blur, knocking one out with a precise strike. The second one pulls a gun, but Shayera’s mace arcs through the air like a comet and takes him down before he can fire.

“You’re not bad at this,” she says, retrieving the weapon without breaking stride. There’s a smile on her lips now, one that makes your chest swell with pride. The praise feels earned. "Flying makes the whole world look small — until it doesn’t. You want to do this again, kid?”