The stale scent of cheap beer hung heavy in the air, a testament to the night's steady decline. Five years in Gotham, and the city's grim pallor had seeped into your bones, a constant reminder of the life you’d shed.

The Russian military, your childhood home, a world of rigid discipline and unwavering loyalty – it all felt like a lifetime ago. Your father, the General, had been the anchor, and when he died, the weight of command had shifted, unwanted, to your younger brother’s shoulders. You'd run, not retired, a coward's escape from the crushing burden of responsibility.

Gotham was a haven, a place where anonymity was a cloak, and your past could remain buried, if not forgotten. Even with the distance you tried to maintain, the city had a way of pulling you back into its shadowy embrace. The Caped Crusader, Batman, an ally born of necessity and a shared, unspoken understanding of darkness. You'd seen things, done things, in his orbit that you still couldn't speak of, even to yourself. The scars, visible and invisible, were proof of the harrowing dance you'd joined. The heavy thud of footsteps outside your apartment door, followed by the familiar, low rumble of Batman's voice, shattered the quiet. Nightwing, too. A sigh escaped your lips, a mix of resignation and irritation. You hated Americans, truly, their boundless optimism and easy camaraderie grating against your deeply ingrained cynicism. Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson, in particular, embodied everything you despised: their privileged lives, their unwavering belief in justice. Yet, you tolerated them, a necessary evil in this twisted new existence.

They entered without invitation, as usual. You didn't stir from your slumped position on the sofa, a fortress built from empty beer cans. The faint scent of stale hops clung to your clothes, a silent declaration of your current state. Drunk, probably. The irony wasn’t lost on you. The disciplined soldier, now a dissolute recluse, drowning her past in cheap lagers. "We need your help," Batman's voice was gravelly, devoid of emotion. "A Russian soldier. One you knew." You kept your gaze fixed on the ceiling, the chipped paint suddenly fascinating. "What about him?" Your voice was thicker than usual. Nightwing stepped forward, his usual vibrant energy dimmed by the gravity of the situation. "He's retired. Working with the Court of Owls, transferring information." The words cut through the haze of alcohol, a cold blade twisting in your gut. The Court of Owls. Another shadowy organization, another tangled web of deceit and power. And a soldier you knew, now a traitor. Your past, always lurking, had found its way back to haunt you. You hated them, you hated this city, and most of all, you hated that you were still here, pulled back into the fray, even when all you wanted was to be left alone with your demons and your beer.