There was one thing Svetlana Orlova was absolutely brilliant at—holding her own. A battle was a battle, and she'd happily dive into one without hesitation. She might not always pick her battles wisely, but in this moment, she was more than capable. Her fighting skills were exceptional, and Jason Todd stood off to the side, observing her with growing curiosity.

Svetlana had clearly been well-trained. Jason now understood why Dick and Virgil were so concerned, and why Damian might not have been as weak as they all assumed. The girl wasn't just some pretty face who would crumble under pressure. She was a fighter—and a damn good one at that.

Jason leaned against the wall, arms crossed, as he watched her take down several of the twelve men who'd surrounded her. She was swift, precise, and merciless. In just ten minutes, half of them were on the ground, and Jason—ever the observer—had barely done anything to intervene.

"Что с внезапным желанием меня? Я ребенок, да? Это немного странно, он так меня жаждет," Svetlana muttered under her breath, dodging both a bullet and a punch in the same moment. What's with this sudden desire for me? I'm a child, right? It's kind of weird, he craves me so much.

Jason didn't need to understand every word. He knew she was mocking her enemies, but it wasn't the words that caught his attention—it was the fury behind her movements. The rage in her eyes was familiar, almost too familiar. It was a type of anger Jason knew all too well.

"Агент Тринадцать нужен не здесь, а там. Война идет по пути, тринадцать. Не сомневайся в своем наследии." Agent Thirteen is needed, not here but there. The war is on it's way, Thirteen. Do not doubt your legacy.

The voice of one of the men caught her attention. He spoke with authority, a reminder of her past. She didn't hesitate.

One shot.

The man dropped without a sound.

Jason didn't know what to think. A teenage girl had just killed a man in front of him. If he were still fifteen, he'd probably think it was... hot? Maybe? He wasn't sure. What he did know was that it wasn't just the man who was dead—it was a part of Svetlana too. She'd killed before, and the way she moved, with cold precision, told Jason all he needed to know. This girl had been shaped by death. She was a weapon, just like him.

And that scared him.

Svetlana's rage was palpable, and as she continued to drop her enemies one by one, Jason realized that she was far from the innocent girl some might think she was. Her past was darker than most people could imagine. And just like him, she'd been molded by violence. He could see it now—she was the weapon. The question was: Could she be more than that?

After the last man fell, Svetlana discarded her gun, the clip now empty. She twirled it in the air and shrugged.

"Скажи Корпорация, что я говорю нет. Агент Тринадцать давно ушел, как и остальные из вас!" she declared, her words fierce, as she wiped the blood from her hands. Tell The Corporation I say no. Agent Thirteen is long gone, and so will the rest of you!

With one last glare, she turned and ran, disappearing into the shadows.

Jason stood silently for a moment, his mind racing. He grabbed the lone surviving man, dragging him to the shadows. He wasn't sure what he was going to do with him, but one thing was clear: This man knew more about Svetlana than anyone else in Gotham, and Jason was going to make sure he shared it.

Back at her apartment, Svetlana didn't feel guilt. She should, but she didn't. The beauty of being a trained assassin was that no traces were left behind. Guns were cleaned, clothes burned, and her body washed free of any remnants of violence.

Now, as she sat in the living room, watching TV in Russian, her phone buzzing in her pocket, she couldn't help but smile. She had done what she needed to do. No one could control her—not even the Corporation. Not anymore.

Damian's apology was brief, but it was enough.

*I messed up. My deepest apologies,
• Robin.*

She responded quickly, the same sense of humor that always guided her interactions flaring up again.

*You messed up. Let's talk.
• Svet xx.*

Barely seconds passed before a familiar tap echoed at the fire escape.

Svetlana smiled to herself as she shoved her phone into her pocket and unlocked the fire escape. The figure that climbed up was none other than Damian Wayne, wearing his Robin suit—yet, somehow, it wasn't just Robin standing there. It was Damian, too.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, almost reluctantly.

Svetlana's smile widened. "Good, Симпатичный мальчик," she said, teasing him with the words, pretty boy.

Damian wanted to roll his eyes, but his expression betrayed him—there was a small, stupid smile creeping across his face, and that made her smile too.

He hesitated before pulling his hands out of his pockets, revealing bloody knuckles. Svetlana raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything as she gently grabbed his hands.

"Глупые мальчики и их глупые драки, да?" she muttered, brushing her thumb over his broken skin. Stupid boys and their stupid fights. She led him toward the downstairs bathroom. "What are these from?"

Damian looked down, knowing full well he couldn't lie to her—not anymore. "I attacked someone... to find out about Agent Thirteen... and the Corporation. I know, Svetlana."

Svetlana didn't flinch, though her face went cold. "No, you don't," she said, her voice steady as she began to clean his wounds. "You know the perfect picture." She avoided his eyes.

The words stung, but Damian understood. It was the first time he wasn't the one being taken care of—he was the one helping, even if only metaphorically. And that meant something, even if he couldn't quite place it yet.

"Tell me about it, Svetlana," he said, his voice softer than he expected.

She paused, the harsh reality of her past tugging at her, but she continued, her voice breaking the silence.

"I ran away, from Russia to Gotham," she started. "It worked, of course. What's another homeless girl? What's another eleven-year-old lost on the streets? My parents took me in. They're different from me... they've achieved life's greatest goal—love. I'm their miracle child. A black couple and their white daughter. It causes... distress."

Damian stayed silent, trying to process her words. He had never imagined she would be so vulnerable, so human.

"Amara and Reginald Oswald and their daughter Svetlana Orlova. A girl with a mockable accent and a fear of sex. It makes sense to me. My accent is who I am. I am Russian, I was raised and born there. But the fear of sex . . . erotophobia, they call it . . . makes sense to. Корпорация used sex as a punishment. I never experienced the punishment, at first I was too young but then I was too perfect. I can kill better then anyone there. I was eleven when I left . . . pretty outstanding to be the best and smartest assassin when there are people of all ages around, but I was the only child. They only needed one child." The Corporation

"They called me Агент Тринадцать, the numbers are rotated as each is killed. Bye bye twelve, hello new twelve. I was Агент Тринадцать for five years, which doesn't seem outstanding but that's the longest an agent has survived. Many started at eighteen years old, I started at six, many died by twenty, I am fifteen. Two years they last, we would kill each other. We died in battle or at their or each other's hands. Who's? I never found out. We died on a mission or we died in fights to the death or in their hands. We accepted it as gospel. I ran away." She told him, patting her face dry with a clothe. "Конец истории." Agent Thirteen. Agent Thirteen. End of story.

Damian could feel the weight of her words. He didn't know what to say. But what he did know was that she wasn't the monster others might see her as. She was broken—just like him. And perhaps, just like him, she could be saved.

"I would have been top of my class if I left you to die," she continued, finally turning to face him.

"Our class, my life is worth more than a grade," Damian replied, his voice steady. There was a quiet understanding between them now.

Svetlana smirked. "I was going to get a dog if I was top of my class. I didn't spend ninety-three hours studying for nothing."

Damian gave a small laugh, shaking his head. "Maybe I was wrong. My life was worth less than a grade."

"Glad you agree, Симпатичный мальчик," she teased again. Pretty boy.

Damian leaned back, his lips curling into a smug smile. "It's always good to agree, ‎أعز فتاة," he said, switching to Arabic, and watching her expression falter.

She tilted her head, catching on. "You're playing me now."

Damian's smirk deepened. "Maybe. But you're not the only one with languages up their sleeve."

Svetlana laughed, the tension easing between them. There was something here, something more than just two broken people—maybe, just maybe, they were starting to heal.