Damian recognized danger before he recognized the face.

The rooftop was wrong—too quiet, wind carrying nothing but the faint creak of rusted steel. He adjusted his stance on instinct, fingers loosening near his blades as a presence resolved out of the shadows across from him.

Not sloppy. Not loud.

Trained.

“You’re early,” Damian said, chin lifting, eyes sharp. “Or late. Depends who you’re copying.”

The other figure didn’t flinch. Younger than Deathstroke, but the posture was familiar—weight balanced, center low, exits already mapped. Damian felt the irritation spark before he could stop it.

That stance. That patience.

“Let me guess,” Damian continued coolly. “You learned to wait until your opponent talks.”

A pause. The air tightened.

Damian’s mouth curved into something not quite a smile. “You move like him,” he said. “Which means you think like him.”

He circled once, testing distance. “That’s a problem.”

Because Deathstroke’s methods were efficient. Ruthless. Effective.

And if Slade had decided to teach someone else—

Damian set his feet, pulse steady, pride flaring. “Fine,” he said. “Show me what he taught you.”

This wasn’t a chance encounter.

It was a measuring stick.

And Damian had no intention of coming up short.