Gotham Academy’s courtyard is bathed in the soft, golden haze of late afternoon—the kind of light that turns old stone romantic and makes even the sharp edges of Gotham blur into something gentler. Ivy crawls lazily up the crumbling walls, catching the light like lacework, and the last birds of the day chirp somewhere beyond the hedge-lined path.

You’re standing just off the main path, half-hidden in the dappled shadow of an ancient sycamore, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Your palms are cold despite the warmth in the air, and you keep checking the time, even though you know she’s always fashionably late.

Bette, leaning casually against the edge of the courtyard’s stone fountain like she walked out of a magazine cover and into your nervous afternoon. The water behind her sparkles, but not nearly as brightly as her smile—or her hair, which the sun sets alight in waves of rich gold, so bright it almost makes you squint. She’s wearing the Gotham Academy uniform, but of course, she’s made it hers. The blazer is half-unbuttoned, her skirt slightly flared, her boots scuffed just enough to whisper “I’ve seen action.”

You catch your breath a little too obviously. You don’t mean to, but it’s hard not to be affected by her—Bette doesn’t just stand still; she glows.

“So,” she says, pushing off the fountain with easy grace, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she strolls toward you. “You know.”

Her tone is light, almost teasing. But there’s a flicker in her eyes—something sharp beneath the surface. She’s watching you closely. You nod. No point pretending you don’t. Not anymore.

She stops a few feet in front of you, arms folded across her chest, one hip cocked. “And let me guess—you want me to train you?”

She says it like a challenge, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips. A real one. Not the cheerleader-perfect one she wears for classmates and teachers. This one is quieter. Hopeful.

“I mean… yeah,” you manage, clearing your throat. “You’ve been doing this longer than I have. And you’re good.”

Her brows lift just a little. “Good?”

You backpedal. “Great. I mean, you’re… Flamebird. You trained and you’ve seen stuff. I figured if anyone could help me not die my first week out there, it’d be you.”

That earns a soft laugh, light and not mocking. She studies you for a beat longer. Then, with a shift of tone that’s almost too casual, she says:

“Why not ask Robin?”