Svetlana Orlova could do a lot of things. She could kill a person in too many ways. She could do ballet. She could argue. She could dance. She could defend the hot toxic men on her TV (and gaslight the other person into agreeing). She could survive a beating. She could fight.

But Svetlana could not manage her time. So, as many teenagers do, she sat on the dining room table (not on a chair, as her parents often told her to) and wrote her essay about Lady Macbeth — and of course, she was defending the woman and calling out Shakespeare in a very professional way. An essay that was due in exactly seven hours and four minutes.

She sat on the wooden table with her laptop in front of her. Her homework was expected to be in English, but right now, she was writing in Russian, as it was her first language and would make it much quicker, meaning she wouldn't have to overthink it. Of course, she'd have to translate it later — that's what Google Translate was made for, right?

Words appeared on the screen. She crossed out the quotes on a loose piece of paper whenever she had used them. Svetlana was aware she was cheating, but she didn't care.

She wasn't above cheating. The fifteen-year-old much preferred to work smarter, not harder. Plus, it wasn't like a teacher would call her out. Svetlana was very good at defending herself and making other people agree with her.

Manipulating people's minds was almost second nature, something that had been drilled into her as a child. Long before she was adopted by Reginald and Amara Oswald four years ago.

Reginald, Amara, and Svetlana had a lot of differences. For instance, the fifteen-year-old had skin as white as snow, but her father was the complete opposite, and her mother was only a few shades lighter. Reginald and Amara often got stopped when walking with Svetlana. Svetlana had blonde straight hair, whilst her parents had curly hair people often described as "kinky."

Svetlana adored her adopted parents. They were sweet people who had become her 'mum' and 'dad' in a year of adoption. She never expected to have parents, let alone ones she loved. She couldn't imagine how she'd react if they were killed — she hoped to never have to experience something like that.

Amara and Reginald worked night and early morning shifts. Meaning her father worked when she was supposed to be asleep (around 10 p.m. until 4 a.m.), and her mother worked a little before he returned home (around midnight to 9 a.m.).

Svet never minded. She understood that her father was a police officer, and her mother was a doctor, both jobs Gotham needed at night and lacked. There weren't many good officers, so she accepted her father as one of them, needed on the field at dangerous times. She also knew a lot of nurses and doctors didn't like working the late or early shift, hence why her mother took it.

As much as she wanted them home all the time, she couldn't have them home all the time — not if she wanted a physical home. But having a physical home meant she was eligible to go to school and inevitably do homework.

Svetlana would pay any sum of money to make it so she didn't have to do the essay. She would be over the moon if there was an attack on her school in the next hour, making it unsafe to go in — that would be a shame. But unlikely; apparently, the mad people of Gotham didn't like to benefit the students who had to stay up late (or early, depending on how you see it) finishing homework to get a simple pass.

There was a distraction — not the kind she expected.

Svetlana slid off the table at the sound of a body loudly crashing down on the metal fire escape.

Like many teenage girls, Svetlana lacked common sense.

She was happy to ditch her homework as she walked to her fire escape and opened the door. She looked at the body, finding it to be Gotham's one and only (well, not the only, maybe the two hundredth) Robin, possibly dead at her feet.

"What a day to die," the blonde commented. She crouched down, lifting his wrist to feel for a pulse. "Never mind, you're alive."

Svetlana dragged the vigilante into her home. She suspected that as a resident in Gotham, she owed the 'heroes' and vigilantes who stopped the whole place from dying nightly.

He was uncomfortable to drag in, but eventually, they were in front of the black leather sofa, which she had to heave him onto.

Svetlana stared at the boy. She suspected he was around her age, and much like her, forced to be short for the rest of his life. After all, she stood at exactly five feet, and he was clearly only a couple inches taller.

There was a particularly nasty gash running down the side of his face, jaw, and neck. An open wound that made her want to take the domino mask off. She could easily pretend she didn't know who it was. It could be her little secret.

But she understood there were boundaries and reasons why no one knew who he was.

Svetlana retreated to the kitchen and dining room, searching for the first aid kit. It took a while, but she found it with the equipment she needed — on many occasions, she had used it to stitch herself up or her mother and father.

She washed her hands after fishing out a pair of blue rubber gloves. Svetlana snapped them onto her hand, wincing when the rubber smacked against her skin.

But soon enough, she was in front of the unconscious boy, on her knees as she disinfected the cut and grabbed a new sterilized needle with 'thread.'

Svetlana got to work on the cut, forgetting her essay that rested on the dining room table. She could always return to it half an hour before class — like she usually did.

Svetlana never expected to stitch up an unconscious vigilante. Yet, she didn't find it surprising.

When Damian Wayne woke up on an unfamiliar (and uncomfortable) sofa in an unfamiliar house, he was startled and on edge. He pushed himself up, his eyes scanning around the room, and in the corner sat a teenage girl staring intensely at her laptop as she typed.

He was silent as he appeared right in front of her.

"Ha, was starting to think you were dead," Svetlana spoke, not looking up from her laptop. She had faltered for a second or two when typing but continued once she had worked out exactly where she had stopped.

Damian watched the blonde, observing her strange behavior. He had questions — a lot of them, actually. He didn't trust this random girl (who may or may not have saved his life) and did not like how unbothered she was.

He snatched the computer from where it rested on her knees. Damian placed it down before yanking her up by her shoulders and pinning her against the wall.

She was only a few inches shorter than him. He couldn't help but notice how pretty she was and how distracting the smirk on her lips was.

Damian was able to notice more about her now that she was stood up — like the gun strapped to her hip — and how confident she was. She believed she was in control, and he believed he was in control.

Svetlana smirked. "Симпатичный мальчик, you're not the one in control," she told him, her voice low and seductive. There was a strong accent in her words — an accent not from America and not one people commonly ran into in Gotham — at least not until the recent uprise in Russian criminals.

He didn't understand the tone of voice, but that was rather the point, as he was slightly thrown off guard, trying to understand the Russian that had left her lips and why her words were said like that.

Damian's back hit the wall, and her gun rested to the side of his head. He ignored it. "Russian," he declared. "You're Russian." He still didn't know what she had said, just what the accent was.

"Oh yes, careful, I might sell your identity to the Soviet Union," she commented, her eyes staring straight into his as she let go of him, slipping the gun back to its place against her hip.

Damian stayed leaning against the wall as she picked up her laptop and let out a sigh of relief — she had saved her room essay a little before he shut her laptop.

Svetlana sat down on the leather sofa, dragging the coffee table a little closer before resting her feet on top of it. She searched for Google Translate before copying and pasting her essay into it, changing the Russian words into English. It was practically complete, minus a conclusion, but they were told not to write one — which really annoyed her.

She pasted it back into the Word program before editing it and making sure it was still professional and made sense.

"Are you hungry?" She asked, saving her work before shutting down her laptop.

"N—"

"I'll fix you up some food. Do you have any dietary requirements? I don't want to kill you, Симпатичный мальчик," Pretty boy.

Damian realized that he had no choice, and he was a little hungry. He stared at her for a few seconds as she watched with a raised brow. "Vegetarian."

"Snap!" She called back, opening her cupboards. Svetlana pulled out ingredients to make a batch of pancakes, therefore there would be some for her father when he returned from work in a couple of hours.

She practically threw it all in the bowl, not measuring