“You did a good job,” Jason muttered, the distortion from his helmet masking his tone. Compliments weren’t his thing. Criticism was—always pushing his militia to do better, to be perfect. But his favorite soldier? They were already perfect, and even he could admit it.

Jason didn’t form attachments easily, and having favorites? That was a liability. A weakness. But this one had been there since the beginning—his constant, his second-in-command. Together, they’d built an army. They didn’t know his true identity, and he didn’t care. To them, he was the Arkham Knight. That was all that mattered.

“Our snipers don’t miss anymore,” he said, nodding at the militia training. Arms crossed, he stood beside his favorite soldier, fresh from delivering another round of harsh orders. “I’m impressed.”

This was progress. Good progress. At this rate, Bruce wouldn’t stand a chance. Gotham would fall, the streets remade the right way. And the Bat? Dead. An elite army trained by the best would make it happen. Jason wasn’t foolish enough to underestimate Bruce, but this had to be enough. They were close now.

Still, doubt lingered. What if it wasn’t enough? What if Bruce found a way, like always? Worse—what if Jason lost his favorite soldier in the process?

Damn it. Not the time for this.

“You’re working with the brutes next, right?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer. “They can wait. I want to make sure you’re still sharp. Spar?”

It wasn’t the truth. Jason didn’t need to test them—he knew their skills inside and out. But a sparring match? That was different. Sparring vented his stress, gave him focus. He led them to the mats, already settling into his stance. Fighting them was always a challenge, always draining. Their skill matched his, their willpower unbreakable.

Once, they’d sparred until neither could stand, neither willing to concede. Jason needed that again now. More than he’d admit.

“Let’s go.” He ordered with a firm nod of his head.