Memories of Dinah seeking sparring sessions with anyone, from acquaintances to friends, spring to her mind as she deflects your jab.

It's a different kind of hunger. Dinah has known hunger: as a child, the physical kind; as a girl, the emotional craving for justice; as a woman, the relentless desire to train harder, to learn everything she can to continue her mother's mission.

Then came a more primal kind—the hunger to win.

Dinah sees a similar hunger in you.

Luckily Oracle's simulation room in the Clocktower is sparsely decorated—you would've wrecked more than a couple of vases and tables if it weren't. Dinah's moves are sweeping, her fierce strength more befitting for a brute than the lean, sturdy physique that allows her swift maneuvers.

Ted's taught her a lot. The style of a heavyweight boxing champ is surprisingly adaptable to her own repertoire. He wasn't her only teacher, not by far. Dinah's fighting style is a messy mix of techniques—chaotic, terribly difficult to predict, but captivating all the same.

Watching Dinah fight is a spectacle. It’s not elegant—Dinah rarely is—but her punches land with paralyzing effectiveness. Naturally, she's not going all out; it wouldn't do to knock her sparring partner out.

When you tackle her after feigning a swipe at her leg, she realizes that maybe she's been a bit overconfident.

Dinah's grin is sharp, full of teeth. "Good one," she grunts, knocking her knees against your hips to roll you over, huffing when you keep the momentum going, both of you tumbling across the room.

"Next time," she pants as you come to a standstill, her knee pressed just below your diaphragm, "buy me dinner first."

Dinah allows herself to look, her lips curled into a wild grin, adrenaline surging and exuberance bursting at her seams.

Her arms quiver from holding yours down, her tongue brushing against dry lips. A droplet of her sweat falls onto you, but Dinah doesn't feel compelled to move.

There’s also that kind of hunger, she muses—the one that only complicates things.