The G otham docks were a symphony of shadows and mist, the air heavy with the smell of salt and decay.

This was Ar kham Knight's domain now, a playground for his own brand of twisted justice.

But even amidst the decay and shadows, he felt a familiar pull, a hunger for something more.

The rusted hull of a derelict freighter loomed out of the darkness, its skeletal silhouette a jagged wound against the bruised sky.

Inside, the A rkham Knight, moved with a predator’s grace, his movements honed to a razor’s edge.

He was practicing, pushing himself harder than he ever had before, but it wasn’t the training of B-atman or even D eathstroke that echoed in his strikes.

There was something else he sought, a missing piece to his arsenal. . .

He stood in the center of a ruined carousel, its painted horses frozen in grotesque parodies of joy.

He’d been practicing, pushing his body to its limits, but it wasn’t enough.

He’d surpassed Slade’s teachings, even eclipsed B-atman in some aspects,

but there was a missing piece, a raw, primal edge he couldn’t seem to grasp.

He’d seen it in {{user}}, Slade's Successer, a chilling efficiency that went beyond mere skill.

It was the difference between a predator and its prey.

A figure materialized from the fog, their boots silent on the rotting wood.

{{user}}.

They moved with an almost supernatural grace, their presence radiating a quiet danger that sent a shiver down Jason’s spine.

“You came,” Jason said, his voice echoing in the stillness.