The Cave is dead quiet at this hour. The Team sleeps, the mountain hums with low power-saving energy, and the ocean outside presses against the cliff face like a living heartbeat. The only sound inside comes from the training room — the dull, steady THUD… THUD… THUD of fists striking reinforced padding.
Phantom is barefoot on the mat, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. His breathing is steady. Controlled. His hair clings to his forehead from sweat, but his expression is as unreadable as ever — calm to the point of eerie. No headphones. No music. No distraction. Just him and the dummy. And even that isn't sparring. It's a dissection.
Every strike lands where it would kill: throat, solar plexus, knee joints, eyes. Not a single wasted motion. No theatrics, no flourishes. Each movement flows into the next, a brutal dance meant for efficiency, not display. The mat beneath him creaks faintly as he pivots, shifting weight like a predator circling prey.
Close-up: his hands. Scarred knuckles split open again. A faint tremor in his wrist that disappears the instant he flexes his fingers. He doesn't tape his hands. He likes the pain. It keeps him focused.
Internal Monologue (Phantom): "Steel walls. Padded floors. They call it training. It's just another cage."
His breathing stays steady as he slips into combinations that shouldn't be possible for someone his size — Shiva's panther form: low, fluid, always moving — until it transitions without pause into Slade's militaristic counter-strikes, the rhythm shifting into brutal, bone-breaking precision. It shouldn't mesh. But for Phantom, it does. Perfectly.
Wide shot: his shadows flicker unnaturally against the walls — not in sync with his body. They move just slightly out of phase, like reflections caught on different frames of time. Blink and you'd miss it. He doesn't notice. Or maybe he does. He doesn't stop.
His fists slam into the reinforced dummy's "neck" hard enough to make its steel base rattle. The sound echoes in the room. He resets his stance, drops into a crouch, and explodes upward with a spinning kick that would have shattered a human skull. The dummy rocks but doesn't fall. He exhales, slow and steady, and goes again. Over and over. Like he's trying to beat something out of himself that refuses to leave.
Close-up: his face. Sweat trails along his jawline. His eyes stay blank. Not focused on the dummy. Not even here. Somewhere else. Always somewhere else.
---
The observation deck above the training room is half in shadow, the glow from the floor below casting just enough light to outline a lone figure leaning against the railing. Robin. Arms crossed. Mask tilted downward, but his mind was working overtime. He doesn't just watch Phantom — he dissects him.
His gaze lingers on everything: the way Phantom shifts his weight between strikes, how his feet glide instead of stomp, how every movement has an exit plan baked in. He's not just trained. He's lived this. Every punch, every kick, every sidestep looks like second nature.
Robin narrows his eyes. It doesn't make sense. Cadmus didn't train him like this. Cadmus trained with weapons — blunt-force tools. But Phantom moves like something else entirely.
Robin (muttering): "That's… Shadows technique. Shiva. Slade. Maybe both."
He leans forward slightly, eyes tracking the seamless transitions in Phantom's flow. He drops low into Shiva's panther form — fluid, crouched, ready to spring — then pivots without warning into Slade's counter-strike rhythm: calculated, bone-snapping precision. The fusion shouldn't work. But it does. Perfectly.
*Robin's mind runs: If he learned from Slade, that's bad. If he learned from Shiva… that's worse.
Robin straightens, pulling his arms tighter across his chest. His thoughts shift from style to the boy himself. For the first time, he studies Phantom beyond the techniques — giving the audience a visual of who this "ghost" really is.
Robin (internal): "Six-two. Built like he's been fighting his whole life. Not like a tank. Like a predator. Lean muscle. Explosive. Hair's dark — almost black — cut short but unkempt. Sixteen, maybe. Same age as us. But he doesn't move like a kid."
Robin's eyes narrow further.
Robin (muttering): "He moves like he's been doing this longer than I've been alive."
Phantom doesn't notice him — at least, that's what Robin thinks. The boy keeps flowing between combinations, striking the dummy with the kind of efficiency Robin has only seen in people who kill for a living. No wasted energy. No hesitation. Just purpose.
Robin exhales softly, his mind already turning to questions Batman won't answer. The kind that come with names like Shiva. Slade. And ghosts that should've stayed buried.
---
There's a subtle shift in the air before Robin hears him. The faintest drag of boots against the floor, the whisper of a cape brushing steel. Batman doesn't enter rooms. He materializes. And now he stands behind Robin, silent as a shadow given form.
Robin doesn't flinch. He doesn't need to turn to know who it is.
Robin (low): "He's not just Cadmus-trained."
Batman: "No."
The word is simple. Final. But it says more than most people could in a paragraph.
Robin glances back at him. His mask hides the look, but his tone sharpens slightly.
Robin: "Then where?"
Batman doesn't answer right away. He steps forward, resting his gloved hands on the railing, watching Phantom below. The boy is still striking the dummy, still flowing like water between Shiva's fluid grace and Slade's militaristic brutality. Batman studies him with the kind of stillness that only comes from deep calculation.
A long beat passes. Batman doesn't break his gaze as he finally speaks:
Batman: "It's hard to say. But between hand-to-hand… if he had a little more experience—"He pauses, like he's weighing whether to finish the thought."—I wouldn't last long."
Robin blinks. That's not hyperbole. Batman doesn't do hyperbole. He turns his head slightly toward Bruce, his voice quieter now.
Robin: "You're serious."
Batman doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. His silence says everything: yes. And it's worse than you think.
They both return their gaze to the boy below — the one who fights like a living ghost. Batman's jaw tightens just slightly. He knows exactly what Phantom is. Where he learned to fight like that. But he isn't sharing. Not yet.
--
Below, Phantom moves like clockwork — strike, pivot, reset. But then, as if on cue, he stops mid-combination. One hand frozen mid-swing, his bare feet planting silently on the mat. He doesn't turn. Doesn't look up. Just stands there, breathing evenly.
And then, calm as a whisper, he speaks.
Phantom: "You'll hurt yourselves if you keep staring like that, dynamic duo."
Robin freezes. His heart skips — not at the words, but at the fact that Phantom shouldn't have known. He hadn't made a sound. He was still as stone up there. And yet… Phantom knew.
On the railing above, Batman doesn't move, but his eye lenses narrow just slightly. A flicker of something — suspicion? Calculation? Amusement? It's impossible to tell. But Phantom has his attention now in a way even Robin can feel.
Down below, Phantom resets his stance. Slowly. Deliberately. He rolls his shoulders, adjusts his footing — the faint rattle of his bones almost audible in the silence. Then he lifts his chin just enough to glance toward the observation deck.
His gaze finds Robin first. The boy wonder, still perched on the railing, hiding his unease behind a mask that suddenly feels too thin. Phantom holds his stare for exactly half a second. Not long enough to be a challenge. Not short enough to feel casual.
And then it comes. The smirk. Faint. Quick. Gone. The kind of expression that says everything without a word.
Confirmation.
He knew the whole time. He let them watch him.
Robin exhales slowly, forcing his arms to stay crossed, forcing his face to stay neutral. Batman doesn't move. Neither of them gives Phantom the satisfaction of a reaction. But they both feel it: the chilling understanding that this boy — thighost doesn't just see them. He reads them.
---
Batman pushes away from the railing, his cape whispering against the steel as he turns to leave. He doesn't say a word. He doesn't need to. The Dark Knight has seen enough for now. He disappears into the hallway with the same soundless weight he arrived with, leaving Robin alone with his thoughts… and the ghost below.
Robin stays. Leaning against the railing, still staring down at Phantom. He doesn't blink, doesn't move. But inside, his mind won't stop turning. Every strike, every shift in Phantom's stance, every second of silence feels calculated. Intentional.
Down below, Phantom goes back to the dummy. But it's different now. His strikes are sharper. Faster. Every movement lands with more force than before — each punch hitting the reinforced padding with a THUD that reverberates through the steel floor. He's not training anymore. He's performing. Or maybe… warning them.
Robin's fingers tighten around the railing, mask narrowing.
Internal Monologue (Robin): "He's not just a weapon. He's a message."
On the mat, Phantom's rhythm slows. He leans into the final strike — one clean, bone-cracking hit that rattles the dummy on its base. He exhales softly, then pauses, his head turning just slightly toward the observation deck.
And there it is again. The smirk. Small. Controlled. Gone as quickly as it came. But this time, Robin knows exactly what it means.
Phantom knows he's still being watched. And he doesn't care. In fact… he wants them to see.
The camera lingers on that smirk for a long, silent moment before cutting to black.