Bruce could feel his temper rising. “Why—because I stopped letting you cheat off me all the time? Because you couldn’t use me anymore?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
So that was it,Bruce thought, resigned. Richard wanted a fight, wasitchingfor one. He narrowed his eyes as he saw Richard shift into an offensive stance, then pulled his goggles back on. Both of them connected on the same channel, and the ring around them transformed into a helicopter pad on a skyscraper’s rooftop.
Richard lunged, one bandaged fist aimed at his head. Bruce brought his shoulders up instinctively; the blow struck his upper arm, and he immediately countered. Bruce circled his opponent, holding back, waiting for him to attack again.Defense first.
Another lunge—another exchange of blows. Bruce had always been lighter on his feet, and he dodged Richard’s attack, but he could tell that Richard had been practicing. Well, he wasn’t the only one who had changed. One, two hits—Richard barely managed to block Bruce’s second strike.
Richard’s face showed his surprise. He skipped forward and shoved Bruce hard enough to send him stumbling back.An illegal move.Before Bruce could recover his balance, Richard aimed a vicious kick at his knee. Pain exploded through Bruce—he clenched his teeth in an attempt not to cry out, but his leg still gave way, and he nearly fell. He caught himself at the last second, stumbling.
Bruce’s dark hair fell across his forehead as he glared at his opponent. That wasn’t a move learned here from their coach.
Their strikes turned faster and more frequent. Richard had a weight and height advantage over Bruce, but he was also slower, and Bruce could see him starting to tire. Bruce seized the moment to strike Richard twice in rapid succession against his side. The boy doubled over with a grunt.
As Bruce swung at him again, Richard grabbed Bruce’s wrist and twisted his arm around in one gesture, flinging Bruce toward the edge of the ring. Bruce stumbled, but this time he was ready. He used his momentum to swing back around, striking Richard hard in the stomach.
Richard doubled over and held a hand up, a silent signal to pause. Bruce hesitated, breathing heavily, pain lancing up and down his body. He lowered his fists.
The instant he did, Richard struck. His fist connected with Bruce’s chin. Stars burst in his vision.
The next thing he knew, he was lying on the floor of the ring with his goggles removed, staring up at his coach’s concerned face as the man helped him up into a sitting position. When had Coach returned to the room?
Coach frowned, nodding for them to step out of the ring. “Break it up, break it up, both of you.” He gave them pointed looks. “You two used to spar so well. Now I can’t leave you boys alone for a few minutes before you try to kill each other.”
Bruce winced, touching his swelling jaw gingerly as Coach left to get an ice pack. He glared at Richard. “Only way you win these days is by cheating, isn’t it?”
“Poor Bruce Wayne. Nobody treats him fair.” Richard returned his cold look before turning away. Somehow, it was worse than the physical pain Bruce felt. “In the real world, there’s no such thing as cheating, is there? That’s just life.”
“What happened to you?” Draccon asked Bruce when she saw him in the Arkham cafeteria that weekend. Her eyes went straight to the deep purple bruise staining Bruce’s jaw.
Bruce didn’t reply right away as he took a seat across from her with his lunch tray. The rest of the week had blurred mercifully by, full of finals and yearbooks and graduation preparations. Bruce was glad for it all, a welcome distraction from his spar with Richard. He was even relieved to be here at Arkham on a Saturday.
“It always looks the worst when it’s healing,” he finally said to the detective. “I’ll be fine.”
She didn’t pry further, to Bruce’s relief. Instead, she went back to her food. “Hope you’re still having a miserable time here, Wayne,” she said.
“Almost as miserable as you,” he replied.
“That so?” She chuckled once. “Then you’ve got it pretty bad.”
Bruce watched the detective for a moment. Her nails were perfectly unchipped, still the same nude brown polish to match the tone of her hands. She was as careful about the way she ate, he noticed, as she was about her appearance—the way she speared her food, the way she arranged her napkin in a perfect square beside her plate so that the edges ran exactly parallel to the table. No wonder she’d become a detective, absorbed in the details of things. In spite of himself, he liked her presence here. At least she lacked any interest in nonsense, and had no desire to taunt him. In fact, if Bruce hadn’t come over to talk to her, she would probably avoid him for the entire duration of his summer probation.
Bruce’s thoughts wandered back to the girl in Arkham’s basement level. He had passed through the hall several times since they’d first locked eyes, although her cell was always filled with ateam of detectives and police—including Draccon, who spent thesessions rubbing her neck in frustration as the girl remained silent.
Bruce had to marvel at the girl’s stubbornness. She didn’t even bother looking at her interrogators; she just stared straight ahead, as if not even aware that they were there. There was a different folded napkin in her hands each time—a swan, a boat, a star. He always found himself lingering there, waiting for her to twist her wrists and transform the paper into something else. Something more dangerous.
Draccon caught him studying her. “What do you want, Wayne?” she asked. “You look like a question’s about to pop right out of your mouth.”
“I saw you and your team down in the basement level twice last week,” Bruce replied. “What’s the story behind that girl in the last cell?”
Draccon raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him. “This place boring you enough to make you nosy?”
“Just wondering,” Bruce added, stirring his mashed potatoes in an attempt to make them creamier. “It’s hard to miss the spectacle.”
Draccon put her fork down and massaged her forehead. Whatever the reason, Bruce thought, this interrogation was clearly a sore point for her. “That girl. She’s in there for a good reason, believe me, but what we discuss with her is none of your business.”
Bruce looked at his own food, picking his next words carefully. “It didn’t seem like much of a discussion,” he replied. “Detective.”
