Svetlana loved her parents. She believed they were almost perfect and had learned to ignore the stares they often received. A Black couple and a white child, it often drew attention — and for her parents' safety, she had learned to keep her mouth shut.

Reginald Oswald loved his daughter. He loved their evening walks, which they tried to do at least once a week, and he loved how, in four years, she had grown to trust them.

At eleven, Svetlana would lock herself in her room, argue, refuse food or any help, and sneak out. By fifteen, she was almost the opposite, though she still often snuck out.

She was grinning ear to ear as they walked through the streets, her hands deep in the pockets of her jeans (pockets she had extended herself). The joy on her face was all due to the A she had received on the English essay she'd completed yesterday — the one where Robin rudely interrupted her flow.

"Can you believe it, Папа?" She asked, her voice filled with happiness.

Reginald smiled down at his daughter. He wasn't surprised — Svetlana was clever, but he never said it to her face. He had once, and it caused her to freak out.

Svetlana didn't like certain descriptions. "Clever" was one of them. The pressure to live up to it was far too heavy. She knew she was intelligent, but when others vocalized it, the weight of the expectation threatened to crush her.

She hated a few other words too, but those were irrelevant for now.

"I'm very proud of you, Lana." He spoke, placing his arm over her shoulder and pulling her into his side, kissing the top of her head.

Svetlana leaned into the embrace. As much as she was decent at keeping her mouth shut, she wasn't good at not reacting. Her eyes found a woman giving them a dirty look, shaking her head.

Svetlana Orlova flipped the woman off. Reginald shook his head, pushing her hands back to her sides as he released her. He stepped away, creating some distance, his head turned down and his shoulders slumped.

Svetlana bit her tongue, hands clenched into tight fists at her side. She raised a brow — if she weren't so angry, she might've laughed at how quickly the woman scurried off to an officer.

The officer, of course, came over to them.

Svetlana and Reginald couldn't step any further. Reginald kept his hands where they could be seen as his daughter reminded herself to keep calm. No matter how much she despised the police, she knew her actions and words could affect her father ten times more.

She was grinding her teeth, blood filling her mouth as she watched the officer approach.

"Hello, miss. I'm Officer Jenkins. Is this man bothering you? That kind lady over there is worried about you."

"No, sorry. He's my dad. I was adopted four years ago." Her Russian accent was thick. There was one thing Svetlana refused to lose: her accent. It was a huge part of her identity, something she wanted to keep.

"I'm going to need to see some ID. How about we go down to the station?"

Reginald glanced at Svetlana, surprised that she hadn't snapped at Jenkins yet. She was calm, but he could tell she was irritated.

"I've got the adoption certificate in my bag, along with my ID," Reginald said, his voice cool but resigned. He hated this part — he was an officer with GCPD, and being on the other side of the badge never sat right with him.

"I can get them for you if you prefer," Svetlana offered, her voice forced into a cheeriness that only irritated her more. "It'll save time and avoid wasting space."

Without waiting for an answer, Svetlana unzipped her dad's backpack, pulled out his ID, and handed over the adoption certificate. As a bit of petty revenge, she also grabbed his badge and handed that over too. Then, she pulled out her phone and found a picture of her passport.

Officer Jenkins read the IDs, checking them more times than necessary while Svetlana tapped her foot impatiently, checking her watch.

"You have different last names."

"It was her choice," Reginald explained. "We offered her our last name, but Svetlana wanted to keep Orlova."

"I'm sorry, I've got homework to do. Are we nearly done?" Svetlana's cheerful voice now sounded forced.

Jenkins narrowed his eyes at the documents before handing them back, along with the adoption certificate, and leaving them alone.

"Что за хуйня!" Svetlana muttered under her breath, shaking her head in disapproval. What a fucking prick.

Reginald sighed, putting everything back in his bag. "I told you this would happen. It always will, Lana."

"I should skin him, Папа," Svetlana said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"No. Remember, we're moving on from what you used to be."

"I didn't use to skin people, Папа," Svetlana laughed, sliding her phone back into her pocket as they walked home.

Svetlana had barely been home alone for two hours before her father left and her mother went to work. In those two hours, she was greeted with a surprise.

Unlike her parents, Svetlana didn't have to climb stairs to get to her room — she had argued her way into getting the bottom-floor bedroom when they moved into this house.

She had been sitting in there for five seconds before she heard a tap — or maybe it was a light knock — on the escape door. Svetlana groaned, grabbing the gun from under her pillow, loading it, and cocking it.

She held the weapon loosely at her side as she left her room, opened the curtains, and saw Robin standing outside the glass door.

Svetlana smiled at him — but he didn't smile back. She grumbled, unlocked the glass and metal door, and pulled it open.

Before she knew it, he was inside, pinning her against the wall and pressing a sword to her throat.

Svetlana laughed, the flat part of the sword pressing cold against her skin. "Excited to see me?" she teased.

"Drop the gun."

"Doesn't sound smart. This baby is ready to shoot. If I drop it wrong, a bullet might hit you."

"I'll do it myself!" He scowled, snatching the weapon from her hand and throwing it onto the sofa.

The cold metal was almost forgotten as the Russian teen stared at the boy in front of her.

"You lie, I get killing, got it?" Damian threatened.

"Are you birds supposed to be killing? Does the mother bat allow that?" Svetlana asked, her face unreadable as she tilted her head — or at least, tried to. She accidentally caught her jaw on the edge of the sword, cutting herself in the process.

"Do I look like Batman to you?"

"You do kind of look like his pet," she smirked.

Damian wanted to slap some sense into her — but he was more irritated by her complete lack of fear. She was so unbothered by the sword to her neck. She didn't seem to care about the danger. Maybe, despite what Virgil had said earlier about killing being a terrible idea, maybe he should just slit her throat. After all, her teasing and mocking were starting to get on his nerves.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"Svetlana Orlova. Who are you?"

"Don't play dumb."

"Are you sure? I mean, I'm blonde, and acting stupid is the norm. It's usually such a turn-on for men, right? I think it's the short stature and the doll-like features," Svetlana said slowly, her tone mocking.

Looking in the mirror across the room, Svetlana caught sight of herself — her pale, almost transparent skin, her big blue eyes, her rosy cheeks, and lips. She appeared delicate and dainty, and the realization hit her hard. She looked like a doll.

Svetlana's face contorted in disgust. "I attract pedophiles. Блин." Crap.

"I came here to figure out who you are and what you know, not to witness your existential crisis."

"I'm having a god-awful day," Svetlana complained. "First, some bitch got a higher score than me in math, my health teacher ripped up my essay because I answered it in Russian, and then my dad got stopped by the police because they saw a Black man and thought he was a kidnapper. Swear, I could kill — I should! I should do it. Черт! Я сделаю это." Fuck! I'll do it.

"I can't let you do that," Damian said. "What was his name?"

"Officer Jenkins, GCPD."

Damian nodded, almost forgetting that he still had the sword pressed against her neck. His eyes widened as he realized they'd gone off-track.

He turned the sword, now placing the sharp edge against the base of her neck.

Svetlana crossed her arms, watching with a raised brow. "Is this you threatening me? I don't know who you are, or why you're doing this, but I promise you," she allowed the honesty to seep into her voice, "I'm not the enemy."

Hours passed, and a lot happened. Eventually, Svetlana had stitched up the teen. They'd talked for hours, at least until they both fell asleep on her sofa. Maybe that day was the start of a beautiful friendship.