The setting sun over Gotham tinged the sky a fierce orange, as if Erick's own fire elemental were painting the clouds with distant flames. The rooftop of the old building where Artemis lived—a decaying building in the heart of the working-class neighborhoods, its bricks weathered by time and rusty antennas swaying in the wind—had been transformed into a makeshift arena. A battered tatami mat, patched with duct tape in several places, covered the center of the open space, surrounded by corroded metal railings that offered a dizzying view of the busy streets below.
Old wooden crates served as makeshift barriers, and a torn tarp hung on a clothesline blocked some of the biting wind of the approaching night. It was a raw place, lacking the luxury of Mount Justice or the Batcave, but perfect for the kind of clandestine training they had been doing for the past few weeks.
Erick and Artemis circled each other on the mat, their bare feet gripping the rubberized material with light, calculated steps. He was shirtless, his defined torso glistening with a thin layer of sweat under the golden light, the muscles of his shoulders and abdomen tense in readiness. His black sweatpants, loose enough to allow fluid movement, swayed slightly with each shift. His piercing blue eyes locked onto hers, analyzing every micro-expression, every muscle contraction that betrayed the next strike.
Artemis, in turn, wore a short black sports top that hugged her athletic curves, revealing the toned skin of her abdomen and shoulders. Her tight gray shorts, cut high on her thighs, highlighted her long, muscular legs, marked by subtle scars from past battles. MMA gloves enveloped both their hands, cushioning the impacts without diminishing the intensity of the contact.
"You're different today," Artemis said, her voice echoing with a mixture of curiosity and challenge as they spun in a slow circle. Her blonde hair, tied in a practical ponytail, swayed with the movement. "Faster. More... precise. What have you been doing in your free time, Forge? Training with ghosts?"
Erick smirked, not letting his guard down. "Just focusing on the basics. Nothing you can't do better." He was lying, of course. The endless virtual hours with Sensei, the time dilation that turned nights into weeks of practice, and the growing synergy with the fire element—which accelerated his recovery and hardened his resistance—were secrets he kept like trump cards. In months, he had gone from a talented beginner to someone who could exchange blows with her on equal footing, something Artemis, trained since childhood by a family of assassins and vigilantes, had taken years to achieve. He saw the reluctant admiration in her green eyes, mixed with a hint of frustration.
Without another word, they advanced. Artemis attacked first, a quick jab with her left aimed at Erick's chin. He dodged with a fluid movement of his torso, feeling the displaced air brush against his cheek. He countered with a low hook, aiming for her ribs, but she rotated her hips and blocked with her forearm, the impact echoing like a sharp slap.
The blow sent her staggering back, but she immediately countered with a mid-level roundhouse kick, her right leg cutting through the air like a blade. Erick raised his arm to defend, his biceps muscle tensing against the force, and felt the elemental pulse through his veins, dissipating the pain like vapor. He didn't groan; instead, he used the momentum to advance, launching a flurry of punches: straight, cross, uppercut. Artemis danced backward, her gloves blocking two and deflecting the third with a precise slap.
"It doesn't hurt as much as before," she murmured between breaths, her eyes narrowed. Her blows were connecting, but Erick absorbed them with a resilience bordering on superhuman. She didn't know about the elemental, the regeneration that healed internal wounds in seconds, but she sensed that something had changed. "Are you hiding something from me?"
Erick chuckled softly, circling to his left. "Maybe I'm just getting used to you." He feinted a high punch, forcing her to raise her hands, then swept low with his leg, a classic judo sweep adapted to the chaos of street fighting. Artemis leaped onto his leg, her thighs flexing with athletic grace, but Erick didn't stop there.
He continued the spin, transforming the sweep into a high spin kick, his heel targeting her shoulder while she was still hovering in the air. She crossed her arms in an improvised block, the impact throwing her to the side. Artemis rolled onto the mat as she landed, rising in a cat-like leap, her chest rising and falling with the effort.
"Good try," she said, rubbing her arm where the kick had landed. "But you telegraphed the movement with your shoulder. You can still predict it." Despite her words, her mind raced: How had he improved so much? Months ago, a simple sweep would have knocked him down. Now, he chains things up as if he'd been fighting his whole life.
They moved closer again, transitioning into a close clinch, bodies colliding in a grappling dance. Erick grabbed her arm, attempting an arm lock, but Artemis twisted her body and countered with a rising knee aimed at his stomach. He absorbed the blow, his ripped abs resisting like forged steel, and countered with a short elbow strike, grazing her shoulder.
They separated, circling once more. The wind from the terrace ruffled Artemis's loose hair, and Erick noticed the sweat beading on her collarbone, tracing glistening lines across the skin exposed by her crop top. His own muscles burned slightly, but the elemental converted fatigue into fuel, keeping him sharp.
Artemis charged with a Muay Thai combination: a low kick to Erick's outside thigh, followed by a cross punch and a hook. The kick landed, sending a wave of pain through his leg, but he countered with a teep kick—a forward shove with his foot—that sent her stumbling backward. She regained her balance and retaliated with a spinning back fist, her fist whipping around like a whip. Erick ducked underneath, feeling the air buzz overhead, and threw an uppercut that she narrowly blocked, their forearms colliding with a snap. The force pushed her two steps back, and she blinked, impressed. He's hitting harder. It's not just technique; it's raw power building.
"You're forcing me to go deeper," Artemis admitted, breathless, a defiant smile on his lips. "I didn't expect that from a rookie."
Erick blinked, his blue eyes sparkling. "Rookie? I'm learning from the best." He lunged forward, mixing boxing with taekwondo: a jab to distract, followed by a high roundhouse kick aimed at her head. Artemis raised her arms in a high guard, the impact reverberating through her bones, but she used the momentum to spin and counter-attack with a low kick to his calf, trying to destabilize him. Erick grunted—the blow hurt, but the regeneration was already beginning to ease—and retaliated with a series of knees in the clinch, forcing her against the terrace railing.
They grappled there, bodies pressed together, breaths mingling in the cool air. Artemis twisted her hip and applied a judo hip throw, attempting to throw him over her shoulder, but Erick anticipated, planting his feet and reversing to a partial suplex. They fell together onto the mat, rolling in a ball of intertwined limbs. Erick ended up on top for an instant, pinning her shoulders with his forearms, but Artemis bridged her hips—an explosive bridge—and reversed the position, straddling him with her thighs tightening around his waist. Their faces were close, her sweat dripping onto his chest, and for a second, the training seemed to dissolve into something more primal.
"Trapped," she whispered, her green eyes locking onto his, her chest heaving against her tight top.
Erick smiled, his muscles tensing. "Not at all." He bucked his hips, using brute strength enhanced by the elemental to invert again, rolling until he was on top. His knees planted beside her thighs, his hands pinning her wrists above Artemis's head. His body hovered over hers, heat radiating from his skin, elevated by his basal temperature, mingling with her sweat.
Their faces inches apart, noses almost touching, breaths synchronized in hot gasps. He watched the blush rise up her cheeks, the neckline of her top rising and falling with each breath, her sweaty curves glistening in the setting sun. His own cheeks flushed, the elemental pulsing not only with fire, but with something more—desire, a chemistry that the Artemis Protocol had meticulously cultivated.
For an eternity, they stood there, their gazes locked, their bodies pressed together in an intimacy that transcended combat. Erick's lips brushed against hers, and Artemis did not recoil; instead, her eyes softened, her pupils dilating slightly. "Erick..." she murmured, her voice hoarse, almost an invitation.
But then, the creak of the terrace door echoed like a gunshot. They separated in a leap, rolling to opposite sides of the tatami, their hearts racing not only from the fight. Erick stood first, turning to face the intruder: a girl with long, straight black hair, dressed in dark, tight clothes that screamed "trained for danger." Her sharp eyes, made up with kohl, swept the scene with a mixture of amusement and suspicion. It was Jade—Cheshire, Artemis's older sister, known for her fickle loyalty and lethal skills as an assassin.
"Jade? What the hell are you doing here?" Artemis exclaimed, standing up quickly, adjusting her top with trembling hands. Her face still flushed, she tried to mask the tension with irritation. "You can't just show up like this!"
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