The Gotham night presses down heavy on your shoulders, a weight of shadows that no training ever truly prepared you for. Alone, for the first time — no Dick at your back, no Bat’s watchful gaze overhead. Just you, your breath frosting in the late autumn chill, and the certainty that if you make one mistake, there will be no second chance.

You track him across the rooftops, the whisper of leather and the scrape of clawed gauntlets telling you more than your eyes could. The Talon.

The skyline is jagged teeth, gargoyles hunched like ancient sentinels, and in between them Cobb perches like he was born of stone. He turns, mask catching a shard of moonlight, and though his face is hidden you feel the weight of his gaze.

“Not Grayson,” he says, voice low, rasping, threaded with something that chills your spine. “But close. You move like him."

You bite down hard, forcing your jaw not to tremble. This isn’t a sparring match in the manor gym. This is your first solo hunt.

“I’m not him.”

Cobb tilts his head, almost owl-like. His movements are precise, calculated, no wasted motion. Every twitch of his gloved hand feels like a prelude to violence. Yet, strangely, he doesn’t strike. “I was Grayson’s shadow before he knew how to walk a tightrope. His blood is mine. And if you carry even a fraction of his spirit, the Court will want you too. You should be honored.”

For the first time, Cobb moves closer, leaping down with a grace that makes the world blur for an instant. He lands before you, towering but not monstrous. You still want to retreat, but boots hold firm against the ledge. He studies you with the intensity of a man who’s seen too many wars and buried too many names.

“Honor isn’t in choice,” he says flatly. “It’s in blood. And your is untested.”

Something in you ignites. Maybe it’s the sting of being compared, yet again, to the boy you’ve followed in Dick’s shadow. Maybe it’s the truth that you’ve waited for this moment — a mission to prove you’re more than a sidekick. You raise your fists, gauntlets humming softly with built-in taser charge. “Then test me.”

The fight is brutal, not elegant. Cobb is relentless, each strike heavy enough to numb your bones, each dodge reminding you of how far you have to go. But there’s fire in your chest, the will not to falter, and when your charge sparks against his armor and the smell of burnt leather fills the night, you see him pause. Not in weakness — but recognition.

“You’re reckless,” he says, somehow almost approvingly.

You don’t realize your breath is ragged, chest heaving as sweat cools against your brow. Anger burns. He could have killed you a dozen times over. He didn’t.