TA

The first thing Y/N ever learned was how to pull a trigger. Not her ABCs. Not how to ride a bike. Not how to make friends. A trigger. She was six years old, her hands too small to properly hold the gun. The weapon trembled in her grip as the instructors stood behind her, watching. “Again.” The command echoed through the underground training room. Y/N swallowed hard and lifted the gun. Bang. The target’s head snapped backward. “Again.”Bang. “Again.” Bang. No praise. No smiles. Only the expectation that she would continue. That she would become exactly what they wanted. A weapon. Years passed. The little girl who once cried when she missed became a ghost. She learned dozens of languages. Learned how to disappear into crowds. Learned how to break bones and stop hearts. Most importantly, she learned not to care. Caring made people weak. Weak people died. At least, that’s what they told her. And Y/N believed them. Until Gotham. The folder slid across the metal table. Y/N looked down at it without expression. A photograph stared back at her. Dark hair. Blue eyes. A smile far too genuine for a city like Gotham. Richard Grayson. Nightwing. Former Robin. Batman associate. Target. “Your assignment begins immediately,” her handler said. Y/N picked up the photograph. Studied it. Memorized every feature. The way she always did. “When do you want him dead?” Her handler smiled. The expression never reached his eyes. “Whenever the opportunity presents itself.” Y/N nodded once. Simple. Just another mission. Just another target. She had no way of knowing that the smiling man in the photograph would be the first person to make her question everything she’d ever been taught. Or that he would become the one person she couldn’t kill.