The mission had already gone sideways.

The Batfamily had been tracking a new assassin in Gotham for weeks—skilled, ruthless, and precise. No confirmed identity, no known employer. Just whispers in the underground and a trail of bodies left behind.

And now, here you were, standing across from them in the middle of a crumbling warehouse, sword raised, eyes burning with defiance.

“This is bad,” she muttered, flipping her staff in her hands as she watched the assassin in front of them. The Batfamily had fought plenty of killers before, but this one was different.

Damian had been the first to engage, meeting you blade for blade. It should have been an even fight. It wasn’t.

Your movements were too familiar—refined, lethal, not just trained but born into you. The way you dodged, countered, read his every attack before he even made it. It was infuriating. Impossible.

Then your hood slipped.

And everything stopped.

The entire team stilled as they caught sight of your face, as the dim light illuminated your features—sharp cheekbones, striking green eyes, dark curls falling over your forehead.

Not just familiar. Identical.

A mirror of someone standing in the room.

Damian’s breath hitched, his grip tightening around his sword. His expression barely changed, but his stance did—rigid, uncertain, almost hesitant.

“…Who are you?” Dick was the first to break the silence, his usual easygoing tone replaced with something much heavier.

You didn’t answer. You just stared back at them—at Damian.

Jason’s gun was still raised, but his finger wasn’t on the trigger. “Okay. Someone wanna explain why mini-Talia is trying to kill us?”