The rain slicked docks glistened under flickering floodlights, each reflection broken into shards by ripples in shallow puddles. My pulse still thudded in my ears from the fight, CE flowing steady under my skin, Limitless hovering at the edges of my awareness in case I needed it.
Green Arrow stood across from me, rain sliding down the brim of his hood, bow hanging loosely in his left hand but never quite out of play.
"Kid, relax," he said, voice carrying that mix of easy confidence and subtle command. "I'm not here for a fight."
I straightened slowly, my stance loosening but my senses still tuned sharp. "Good. Because I'm not really dressed for round two."
A faint smirk touched his mouth. "From where I was standing, you looked more than ready for one. Not bad work, by the way. That meta you dropped? Not many people handle one that cleanly on their own."
I didn't answer right away, studying him. The way he moved—no wasted steps, no unnecessary shifts—told me he could put an arrow through my chest before I even thought of dodging.
"You're missing a partner tonight," I said, letting my voice go casual. "Thought Speedy would show. Or did he take the night off?"
Green Arrow chuckled lightly. "He's busy. Different priorities. But you—" He gave me a slow once-over, his tone somewhere between appraisal and curiosity. "—you're interesting."
"Interesting isn't always a compliment," I said.
"Depends on who's saying it." He stepped a fraction closer, just enough to make the distance feel smaller. "You operate solo?"
"Yeah. Less hassle that way."
"Solo and skilled." He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. "Most people I've seen with your… style—" he let the word hang, like he was fishing without a net, "—don't stay off the radar long."
"That supposed to be a warning?"
"Call it… experience speaking." He adjusted the grip on his bow, casual but deliberate. "You've got good awareness. You read the field well. But skill like that—it attracts attention. And not always the good kind."
I shrugged. "I'll take my chances."
For a moment we stood there in the rain, neither pushing the conversation further, but both fully aware this wasn't some casual street encounter. He was measuring me, and I was measuring him right back.
Finally, he said, "You're not the type to stay still. Keep training. Keep your eyes open. And try not to get yourself killed before you figure out what you're really capable of."
"Sound advice," I said dryly.
"Free of charge," he replied with a smirk before stepping back into the shadows. A moment later, he was gone, leaving only the rain and the echo of his presence behind.
I made my way back to my apartment through the dim, neon-lit streets. The fight still played in my head, but Green Arrow's appearance stuck with me more. If he'd been here for a fight, I'd have been in serious trouble. That reality wasn't discouraging—it was motivating.
Inside, I stripped off soaked clothes, showered under water hot enough to burn the lingering cold from my skin, ate whatever leftovers were still edible, then dropped into bed. Sleep came quickly.
I woke to sunlight cutting through my blinds and the vibration of my phone on the nightstand. A news alert lit the screen:
Massive Fire Engulfs Cadmus Research Facility — Authorities Investigating Possible Metahuman Involvement
The headline jolted me upright. I didn't know Cadmus personally, but in the context of this world, it didn't take long to put the pieces together. They were dangerous—cutting-edge science, genetics, cloning, weaponization of metahumans.
Which meant this was Young Justice territory.
If I was going to survive here, I couldn't stay at my current level. I needed to fight stronger opponents, learn faster, push my limits until there wasn't anyone I couldn't at least stand against.
The answer didn't come immediately, but by midday I had one. Fight rings—underground meta tournaments—were real here. Dangerous, illegal, and exactly the kind of crucible I needed.
Finding them meant finding the right kind of people. Not heroes. Not even low-level criminals. I spent hours drifting between places I knew would be invisible to most: back rooms of pawn shops, the less friendly corners of dive bars, the shadowed tables of back-alley gambling dens.
It was in one of those gambling dens, tucked behind a bodega in the Narrows, that I found my lead. A tall, wiry man with burn scars along his neck and forearms was arguing over dice. The conversation shifted when I casually covered his losing bet, sliding the chips his way.
"You're generous," he said, eyeing me.
"I'm curious," I replied. "Heard about a place where metas test themselves. Not the cape kind—the other kind."
His eyes narrowed just slightly. "You're not a cop."
"Do I look like one?"
He studied me for a beat, then smirked. "You want in, you need a name vouching for you. I might know someone. But you'll have to prove you can last more than thirty seconds in the ring. They don't take tourists."
We talked, traded a few vague stories that were half-truth and half-performance. By the end, I had a time, a place, and a burner comm frequency. The fights were in an abandoned freight terminal outside city limits, cash in for cash out, winner takes the pot. Rules were simple: no killing unless agreed beforehand.
By nightfall, I was back in my apartment, the hum of CE already in my veins as I thought ahead. This was reckless, yes—but it was also the fastest path to the power.