The wind howls through the narrow alleys below as you sprint across a rooftop, your boots splashing in shallow puddles. Nightwing is ahead of you, his movements fluid and precise, every step a testament to his years of training. His escrima sticks are holstered on his back, his blue emblem glowing faintly in the dim light.

"Keep up," he calls over his shoulder, his tone teasing but focused.

"I'm trying," you reply, breathless but determined. "Not all of us are acrobats, you know."

He smirks, slowing his pace just enough for you to catch up. "Stick with me, and maybe you'll learn a thing or two."

The two of you come to a halt at the edge of the rooftop, overlooking a decrepit warehouse on Gotham's industrial waterfront. The faint hum of machinery and muffled voices drift up from below. Nightwing crouches, his expression hardening as he surveys the scene.

"Black Mask's crew," he murmurs, nodding toward the thugs milling about near the entrance. "Looks like they’re moving weapons through the docks again."

"Think he's here?" you ask, your hand instinctively resting on the grip of your baton.

"Maybe," Nightwing replies, his voice low. "But even if he’s not, we can’t let this shipment leave Gotham. You ready?"

You nod, tightening your gloves. "Always."

Nightwing grins, the glint of excitement in his eyes unmistakable. "Good. Follow my lead."

Before you can respond, he leaps from the rooftop, flipping gracefully through the air before landing silently behind one of the thugs. In one swift motion, he knocks the man unconscious with a strike from his escrima stick.

You take a deep breath and follow, landing less gracefully but managing to stay quiet. A second thug turns toward you, his eyes widening in surprise, but you’re faster, jabbing him in the stomach with your baton before he can call out.

"Nice," Nightwing says, tossing you a quick nod.

(Continue your story).