Nightingale | Barry Allen x OC

Emma was walking down the darkened street, her mind still buzzing from the late call she'd wrapped up at Orion Data. The streets of Central City felt emptier now that the sun had set, and the fading echoes of construction and rebuilding efforts were replaced with the unsettling silence of a city trying to find its new rhythm. She pulled her jacket tighter against the chill and quickened her pace, eager to get home after another long day.

But as she passed under the flickering streetlight, she heard footsteps. Heavy ones, not the usual city sound of people on their way home or the shuffle of cars passing. The kind of footsteps that didn't belong.

She turned to glance behind her, her eyes narrowing when she saw two men blocking her path. They weren't exactly subtle—dirty jeans, leather jackets, and the unmistakable glint of something sharp tucked into their hands.

"Hey, pretty little thing," one of them sneered, his voice thick with menace. "What's a nice girl like you doing out here all alone?"

Emma's heart skipped, but she didn't panic. No, she wasn't one to panic. She was born in Gotham, after all, and she'd learned a few tricks of the trade over the years. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her satchel as she assessed the situation. Two men. One on her left, one on her right. Both carrying switchblades.

"You don't want to do this," Emma said, her voice steady, almost bored. She could already feel her body shifting into autopilot, that familiar confidence she'd built over the years kicking in.

"Oh, we do," the other thug added, his grin widening as he flicked his knife open with a snap. "We definitely do."

The first thug lunged at her, too fast for him to think through, but slow enough for Emma to read. She sidestepped, grabbing his arm as he passed and using his momentum to toss him effortlessly over her shoulder. He crashed to the ground with a grunt, and before he could get up, she was already moving.

She grabbed a nearby wrench, left abandoned in a pile of scrap metal, and swung it with precision. It connected with the second thug's forearm, knocking his knife from his grip. His face twisted in pain, and before he could recover, Emma grabbed the lid of a nearby metal trash can and slammed it into his chest. The thug staggered backward, winded.

Both men were down, groaning, but Emma didn't wait to see if they'd get up. Her heart was racing, but her body was already on high alert, her mind running through her next move. She backed away, ready to fight if needed—but as she turned to leave, she was suddenly aware of a figure standing in the shadows.

It wasn't the thugs. No, it was something else entirely.

The Flash.

He stood there, watching the aftermath of her quick defense with that signature calmness, his red suit almost glowing against the dim light. His stance was relaxed, but Emma could tell he was ready for anything. She had only ever seen him on TV, on the news, in the headlines—her city's hero, a blur of speed and electricity. But now? He was here. In front of her.

"It's not safe to be out past dark," he said, his voice calm and even. He glanced at the incapacitated thugs with mild disinterest before picking up her satchel from the ground, handing it back to her with a slight tilt of his head.

Emma's mind was still reeling. Her hands still tingled from the adrenaline of the fight, and now she had the Flash standing right in front of her, like this was just another Tuesday night.

"Uh, thanks," she said, her voice coming out more breathless than she'd intended. She took the satchel back, her fingers brushing his for just a second. "I—I didn't expect to be meeting you tonight."

The Flash gave her a wry smile, the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes. "No one ever does." His gaze lingered on her for a moment, as if considering her more deeply. "You handled yourself well. Maybe you should stick to working during the day, though. Things can get... unpredictable at night."