Athena squinted against the pale morning light bleeding through the curtains, her eyelids heavy and glued together with sleep crust. She rubbed at them with the heel of her palm, blinking hard until her vision cleared.
The next thing she noticed was the taste of her own breath, and she wrinkled her nose. "Ugh," she muttered to herself, pulling her knees up as she sat cross-legged on the bed. Her hair was still in the bun she'd tied the night before, but it was loose and messy now, strands sticking out like black silk threads gone rogue.
For a few moments, she just sat there, absently tracing her fingers over the smooth navy sheets. It felt so surreal—like the events of that night hadn't actually happened. The long flight, the car ride through Gotham, the quiet but watchful Bruce Wayne. It all felt like someone else's dream that she'd woken up inside.
It had been a few days since she'd arrived at Wayne Manor. Meals were quiet, shared with Bruce only briefly before he disappeared into his office or off to Wayne Enterprises. Her days were spent between the library, the garden, the training room, or simply roaming the halls of this vast, shadowed place.
Most of the time, she'd train late at night or just in the early evenings.
She sat still, listening to the only noise left of the room—her hearbeat.
She exhaled slowly, grounding herself. This is real. This is Wayne Manor.
She got up, straightened the bun the best she could, and grabbed her gold-framed glasses off the nightstand. The cold metal against her skin made her blink sharply, waking her up a little more. After splashing some water on her face in the adjoining bathroom, she stared at her reflection. A messy bun, circular glasses, gold hoops still in place, and eyes that looked tired but sharp.
She then started to fully process everything that happened over the past couple days.
The flight... The meeting with Bruce and Alfred... and the day before... back at that bloody house. It never felt like home. To be fair, it never really was fit to be one. Athena wondered how her sister was doing. Nevertheless, she'll make a call to check over everything later. Right now, her priorities set on figuring out everything.
"Billionaire mansion or not," she muttered as she untied her hair, "you're still you."
She chose a black full sleeve top and rolled it up till her sleeves. She wore her usual black wrist-leveled gloves and loose, cameo pants.
The manor was quiet as she slipped out into the hallway. No sign of Alfred. No sound of anyone awake. She wandered for a while, her steps soft against the polished wood floors, her curiosity pulling her through unfamiliar corridors.
It wasn't long before she heard something—a faint metallic clang, rhythmic and sharp, echoing faintly through the walls. Curious, she followed the sound down a side hallway, past a set of double doors, and down a stairwell she almost missed.
The air changed as she descended. It was cooler here, and the walls were less polished, more utilitarian.
When she stepped through the open doorway, her breath caught for a second.
The room was vast, far bigger than a standard gym, with steel racks of equipment along one wall, mats on the floor, and an array of high-end training gear she couldn't even name. But what really caught her eye was the man at the center of it all.
Bruce Wayne.
He wasn't in a suit. No perfectly pressed shirt or billionaire aura. Just a black compression shirt and training pants, his movements smooth and precise as he slammed a gloved fist into a heavy punching bag. The sound was sharp, almost like a gunshot in the quiet room.
Athena leaned against the doorway for a moment, watching him. There was something intense, almost predatory, about the way he moved. It wasn't just a workout—it was control. Discipline.
Athena leaned against the doorway, watching. Another thing... eye candy, she thought dryly. No wonder he's got a reputation with women. I feel blessed.
Bruce glanced over his shoulder mid-combo, catching sight of her. His expression didn't shift much, but there was a flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes.
"Morning," Athena said, voice still groggy but steady.
"You're up early," Bruce replied, his tone even as he struck the bag one last time. "Not everyone makes it past their first night in a new place without sleeping in."
Athena smirked faintly. "I don't sleep in. Feels like I'm wasting daylight unless I want to."
Bruce turned to face her fully, his dark hair slightly damp from sweat. "Good habit."
Her eyes flicked around the room again, curious. "So... you actually use all this stuff, huh? I thought billionaires just owned fancy gyms to look rich."
Bruce gave a ghost of a smile. "This one's not for show."
Bruce picked up a towel and wiped his hands, his eyes scanning Athena with the same quiet assessment he'd given her last night. "Do you know any self-defense?" he asked, casually—though his tone hinted he was already studying her posture for the answer.
Athena gave a light shrug, walking further into the training room. "Enough to get someone twice my size to let go of my wrist. Why?"
"Because Gotham Academy isn't exactly... harmless," Bruce replied. "Not everyone there plays nice, and this city—" He paused, as though choosing his words carefully. "—this city doesn't care if you're rich, smart, or from a billionaire's house. Trouble finds everyone."
Athena tilted her head, her dark hair slipping loose from her bun. "You offering to teach me how to throw a punch, Mr. Wayne?"
"Something like that," he said with a faint smirk.
Bruce motioned toward the mats. "Let's see what you know. Don't worry, I'm not expecting much. Just... show me what you'd do if someone grabbed you."
Athena stepped onto the mat without hesitation, removing her glasses and setting them on a bench. She rolled her shoulders, stretching slightly—not too much to give herself away, but enough to loosen her limbs.
Bruce reached out, his hand moving toward her wrist.
In a flash, Athena twisted, shifting her weight to break the grip before it even landed, using a textbook Taekwondo move—clean and fluid.
Bruce's eyebrow lifted slightly. "Not bad."
"Thanks," Athena said lightly, stepping back.
"Again," he said. This time, he moved faster.
She sidestepped, pivoted on her heel, and—without thinking—ducked low, sweeping his arm away. Her movement was sharp, controlled, and far too smooth for a complete beginner.
Bruce stilled, his dark eyes narrowing just slightly. "Where did you learn that?"
Athena blinked, her face perfectly neutral. "YouTube," she said deadpan.
Alfred, who had appeared in the doorway with a tray of water bottles, coughed to mask a laugh.
Bruce wasn't convinced, but he let it slide. "You're... better than most. That's not YouTube."
Athena tilted her head with a tiny smirk. "Guess I'm just a fast learner."
As Bruce studied her, Athena's gaze drifted to a rack of weapons on the wall. Her eyes locked onto a pair of black nunchucks hanging neatly among the training gear.
"You keep those for decoration?" she asked.
Bruce followed her gaze. "No. They're part of the training. Why?"
Athena walked over, picked up the nunchucks, and weighed them in her hands with a familiarity she didn't bother to hide. Then, without warning, she spun them in a tight, precise figure-eight—her movements sharp, clean, and fast enough to make the air whistle.
Bruce raised his brows, genuinely caught off guard.
Athena stopped, resting the nunchucks lightly on her shoulder. "What?" she said, completely unfazed.
Bruce gave her a long look. "You're not exactly what I expected, Miss Blackwell."
Athena's lips quirked. "Good. Expectations are boring."
.
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―1270 words.