"Who?"
Jack Kadere's response came out lazy, unhurried.
"The perfume on you." Felicity's arms remained crossed. "Whose is it?"
"Is there?" He sniffed his own shoulder and caught nothing. "I showered. Must've picked it up afterward." He stepped closer, sliding his hands around her waist before she could retreat. "I supervised Laurel's training this morning. Afternoon, I helped someone ditch their bodyguards and hitched a ride to Central City. Just got back."
Felicity's eyes narrowed, but she didn't pull away.
"This is the sonic equipment I got for Laurel." He pressed the device into her hands and kissed her cheek—quick, casual, disarming. "Check it over, see if there are any problems. I'm going to shower again. Any food left? I haven't eaten."
He walked toward the bathroom without waiting for an answer. Felicity watched him go, her suspicion softening into something more confused.
He always does that. Answers everything and nothing at once.
She looked down at the device in her hands, then sighed and headed for the kitchen.
---
The microwave hummed. Outside, rain tapped against the windows in uneven bursts, carrying the smell of wet asphalt up from the street below. Felicity set the reheated leftovers on the counter and returned to the living room with the sonic equipment.
The design genuinely impressed her.
Compact. Elegant. The power output was divided into discrete levels—low enough to disorient, high enough to incapacitate. Without countermeasures, this thing could turn a fight before it started. Whoever built it understood both acoustics and combat application.
This isn't amateur work. Where did he even get this?
"How is it?"
Jack emerged from the bathroom in fresh clothes, hair still damp. He dropped onto the couch beside her, pulled her against his side, and glanced at the device.
"It's clever," Felicity admitted. "No structural flaws. But there's one problem—the user gets hit too when it activates. They'd need protection."
"No locator?"
"No locator."
"Good." He shrugged. "The exposure problem's easy. Noise-canceling earbuds. She can sort that out herself."
Felicity nodded slowly. She could design the earbuds, but design meant nothing without materials, equipment, funding. None of which she had.
Laurel's problem now.
---
The Next Morning
The same hotel. The same room. The same faint smell of industrial cleaner failing to mask older, less identifiable odors.
Laurel stood near the door, arms folded, visibly uncomfortable.
"Do we really have to keep coming here?"
"What?" Jack leaned against the dresser, amused. "Afraid someone will see you?"
"I don't have the money to rent a room with you every day." Her voice carried a edge of resentment.
"Then earn it." He pushed off the dresser. "You can't protect a city and punish criminals without funding. Here—" He tossed her the sonic device. "Equipment I acquired yesterday. Had to kidnap someone for it."
Laurel caught it, then froze. "You kidnapped someone again?"
"Can't stand it?" His smile didn't waver. "Then get strong enough to stop me."
He says it like it's obvious. Like I'm the unreasonable one.
She bit back her response.
Jack explained the device's operation—activation sequence, power levels, effective range. Then: "You can't use this yet. Not until your foundation's solid. Now stop stalling. Training starts now."
"Mornings are physical conditioning. Afternoons, combat technique."
Laurel exhaled slowly. Life had become a series of things she couldn't refuse. Whether Jack Kadere qualified as one of those things, she wasn't sure anymore. But resistance cost more energy than compliance.
She stripped off her outer layers in silence.
Jack settled onto the bed, watching with the same detached attention as yesterday.
---
The morning unfolded exactly as before.
Laurel trained with desperate focus, every movement precise, every breath controlled—because imprecision meant voltage. The small electrodes Jack had attached to her skin punished every lapse in form, every moment of distraction.
She was shocked seven times before noon.
At this rate, I'll be immune to electricity before I learn to throw a punch.
Sweat dripped from her chin onto the thin carpet. Her muscles burned. Her lungs ached. But she kept moving, because stopping wasn't an option he'd offered.
---
After a shower and thirty minutes of rest—no food, he hadn't suggested it and she hadn't asked—the afternoon session began.
Laurel had no combat foundation. Jack had selected styles that would leverage her height and leg reach: primarily Muay Thai and Savate, supplemented with free combat principles and Taekwondo's kicking mechanics. Wing Chun would have complemented the mix well, but none of the abilities he'd Copied included it, and he wasn't inclined to learn it himself.
Batman knows it. I'll acquire it when he's back.
For now, this curriculum would keep Laurel occupied for months.
He did not train gently.
The concept of protecting women from discomfort seemed entirely absent from his methodology. When a strike needed to land, it landed. When a throw needed to happen, it happened. He made no allowances for her gender, her inexperience, or the fact that she trained in only her underwear.
By the end of the session, Laurel's skin—pale that morning—had bloomed with bruises across her ribs, her thighs, her forearms.
---
[Starling City — Outside the Hotel — Late Afternoon]
The evening air carried the smell of exhaust and distant rain. Laurel limped down the front steps, every joint protesting.
"Same time tomorrow," Jack said from behind her. "Don't be late."
"I might not make it tomorrow." She turned, wincing. "I'm moving out of my parents' place. The move is tomorrow."
"Living alone?" He considered this. "Good. More convenient. We'll resume after you're settled."
"Okay."
She limped away without looking back. Her silhouette grew smaller against the gray street, exhaustion visible in every step.
---
[Starling City — Phone Booth — Early Evening]
Jack found a public phone three blocks from the hotel. The booth smelled of cigarette ash and old metal. He fed coins into the slot and dialed Talia al Ghul's number.
One ring. Two.
"Hello."
The greeting barely left his mouth before he heard it—a sharp intake of breath, followed by a cold hiss of recognition.
"You."
Jack chuckled softly. "Impressive. You remember my voice that clearly. Does Bruce Wayne know how often you think about me?"
"What do you want." Not a question. A demand, edged with barely contained fury.
"A suit. Same material as Batman's armor. I'll give you the specifications and measurements. Write them down."
Silence. Then: "Are you threatening me?"
Jack paused—not from hesitation, but from genuine amusement.
"Yes," he said. "I'm threatening you. If you don't comply, I expose your identity and distribute those photographs I took. Scared? Think I'm shameless? Want to kill me?" He let the silence stretch. "You do understand your situation, don't you?"
Nothing from the other end.
"You really can't help yourself, can you?" His voice dropped, half mocking, half curious. "Always have to push back. Even when you've already lost."