Artemis's rooftop was bigger than I had expected — a wide, almost private training field, isolated by tall rusted metal railings and a concrete wall that blocked the view from nearly all neighboring buildings. The Gotham wind blew strong up there, carrying the damp smell of wet asphalt and the distant, never-ending sound of sirens. In the center, a large, worn tatami mat covered most of the floor — soft enough to cushion falls, yet firm enough for quick movements. Around it, old weights stacked in one corner, a punching bag hanging from a reinforced beam, and scattered boxes of arrows like they were part of the decor. The place had an air of hard-earned privacy — I figured only she and maybe her sister used this space. Perfect for training sessions that couldn't be seen by curious eyes.
I arrived early, training bag over my shoulder, still feeling the echoes of yesterday's session in my muscles. Black tank top, light gray pants, training gloves — nothing fancy, just the essentials. Artemis was already there, stretching against the railing, her body outlined by the setting sun that painted everything in shades of orange and red. She wore a dark green sports crop top and shorts that left her long, muscular legs exposed. When she saw me, she raised an eyebrow, that sarcastic smile already ready on her lips.
"Punctual. At least you don't disappoint in that," she said, rolling her shoulders. "Ready to take another beating?"
"Ready to learn," I replied, dropping the bag in the corner and stepping onto the tatami. "Show me what you promised."
She laughed — short, sharp — and assumed her stance. "First practical lesson: redirection. It's not about strength. It's about letting your opponent destroy themselves."
I nodded and entered guard — feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent, arms raised in a hybrid muay thai and judo posture. My elemental pulsed hot in my chest, heightening perception, but I knew I couldn't rely on it here. This was pure technique.
She attacked first — a fast straight punch aimed at my solar plexus. I tried to block with my forearm, but the moment our arms connected, she twisted her wrist, redirecting my own force to the side. My balance broke. Before I could react, she slipped under my extended arm, used my momentum against me, and threw me flat on my back on the tatami with a smooth, almost elegant takedown. The impact was cushioned by the soft material, but the air still rushed out of my lungs.
"First rule," she said, offering a hand to pull me up. "You don't fight the strike. You dance with it."
I took her hand and stood, feeling heat rise to my face — not just from effort. "Again."
She came faster this time — combination of jabs, crosses, a low hook. I tried to counter with a muay thai knee, but she swayed her torso with minimal movement, grabbed my extended arm, twisted her hip, and threw me again. I hit the mat hard on my back, rolled, and stood up huffing.
"You're thinking too much," she said, circling like a predator. "Your muscles know what to do, but your head is in the way. Let your body remember."
I tried once more — direct attack, straight punch followed by a hook. She let the punch miss her face by centimeters, grabbed my wrist, twisted, and used my own momentum to send me sideways. I fell to my knees, rolled, and got up fast. Sweat ran down my face, the elemental burning hot to recover my breath, but the humiliation was greater than the physical pain.
She stopped, hands on hips, looking at me with that smile that mixed provocation and patience. "Got it now? It's not about being stronger. It's about being smarter. Batman and Robin aren't superhuman because they have powers. They're superhuman because they turned the mortal body into a perfect weapon. They don't resist force — they redirect it. They use the opponent's weight, momentum, imbalance. A super-strength kick becomes a fall that breaks bones. A punch that could knock down a wall becomes a spin that leaves the guy face-down."
I wiped the sweat from my face with my forearm. "So… that's what separates you guys from me?"
"Exactly, newbie. You have raw power, good reflexes, an inner fire that gives you an edge. But you still fight like you're in a ring with rules. We fight like the only rule is survival. Now — your turn. Try to take me down. I'll attack. You redirect."
I nodded, entering stance again. My heart pounded — not just from effort, but from proximity. She was beautiful even while sweating, even while humiliating me. The crop top clinging to her body, the defined muscles of her legs, the sharp gaze. Focus, Erick.
She came.
A straight punch — I tried to deflect and grab her wrist like she had done. I missed the timing by a fraction of a second. She slipped underneath, spun, and I felt the world tilt. We fell together — her on top, me flat on my back on the tatami. The impact was soft, but the position… not.
She was sitting exactly on my groin, strong thighs pinning my sides, hands braced on my chest to balance herself. Our faces inches apart. Her sweat dripped onto mine. Her almond-shaped eyes were wide — genuine surprise for the first time. My arm, in pure reflexive defense, had ended up exactly where it shouldn't: my right hand firmly grasping her left breast through the thin fabric of the crop top.
Silence. Only our panting breaths.
I turned redder than ever — heat rushing from my chest to my ears. "Sorry—" I started,but my voice came out hoarse, almost a whisper.
She flushed too — a subtle shade on her cheeks — but didn't move immediately. For an eternal second, we stayed there, almost kissing, noses brushing, eyes locked. Then she let out a low, acidic laugh and quickly pulled away, standing up.
"Good attempt at grabbing, newbie. Wrong target," she said, offering a hand to help me up. The tone was teasing, but there was something softer there, a crack in the armor.
Before I could respond, a voice cut through the air like a blade:
"Am I interrupting something?"
We both turned at the same time.
A woman stood in the doorway leading back into the apartment — tall, slender, long black hair falling like an ebony curtain, piercing green eyes that echoed Artemis's but colder, more predatory. She wore a tight black leather jacket, dark pants, and high boots. The smile on her lips was dangerous — a mix of amusement and threat. I recognized her instantly: Jade Nguyen. Cheshire. Artemis's sister. The professional assassin.
Artemis stood up quickly, her face snapping back to the sarcastic mask. "Nothing, Jade. We're just training."
Jade tilted her head, looking from me to Artemis and back. Her eyes raked over my body from head to toe — assessing, like a predator measuring prey. "Training, huh? Interesting technique, that falling-on-each-other thing. Very… intimate."
I stood up, trying to regain composure. Artemis stepped forward, placing herself between us. "Erick, this is my sister, Jade. Jade… Erick."
I extended my hand. "Nice to meet you."
She shook it — hard. Very hard. Her fingers felt like steel. "Wow… strong grip. I like that." Her smile was pure sweet poison. "You're the famous metahuman from Gotham who killed Zsasz? Interesting."
Artemis crossed her arms. "What do you want, Jade?"
Jade shrugged, still smiling. "Calm down, sis. I just came to visit Mom. Someone has to take care of her, right? You've been so busy saving the world…"
Artemis snorted. "Then let's go. Both of us." She turned to me. "Training's over for today, newbie. See you tomorrow."
I nodded, grabbing my bag. "Alright. See you tomorrow."
The two of them went down the stairs. Before closing the door, Jade threw me one last look — that indefinable smile still on her lips. I stayed alone on the rooftop, heart racing, face hot. The memory of the position, the hand in the wrong place, the almost-kiss… everything spun in my head.
I hurried down, grabbed my things, and left the building as fast as possible, bag bouncing on my back. The trip home was a blur. I reached the basement sweaty, humiliated again — but this time for different reasons.
I sat in the chair, still dazed,body buzzing with adrenaline and embarrassment.
The screens lit up automatically.
Doc appeared first. "We detected elevated body temperature and increased blood flow to the pelvic and facial regions. Heart rate at 128 bpm. Testosterone levels—"
"Shut up," I growled, red to the ears. "How's Project Sensei?"
The main screen shifted. Natasha appeared. "Absorption and formation completed 47 minutes ago. Sensei is online and stabilized."
I took a deep breath. "Great. Let's start now."
The main screen flickered. A face appeared — only the head and neck, floating on a black background. Asian man, short black hair, expression serious as stone. Muscular neck, suggesting an equally forged body. Dark eyes stared directly at me.
"Hello," said the deep, grave voice with a subtle Japanese accent. "It is an honor to meet my creator."
I smiled, despite everything. "Sensei."
He inclined his head. "I am ready to test your capabilities… and mine. Put on the helmet. Let's begin."
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