The irony was not lost on Iris as she found herself standing in the dimly lit corridor leading to the guest wing. She had intended to retrieve a spare set of training linens from the storage closet nearby, but her feet had betrayed her.
Her body seemed to have developed its own malevolent intelligence, dragging her toward the one place she knew she should avoid.
She knew their patterns. She knew that despite the rigid discipline of the Nightwing household, Rex and Diana often found moments of illicit connection in the middle of the afternoon moments that defied the schedule of training and duty.
Usually, Iris would be occupied with drills or reports, safely insulated from their intimacy. But today, she had finished early.
And today, fate was cruel.
As she approached the guest room, Iris froze. The heavy oak door wasn't fully latched; it hung open by a mere two inches, a sliver of amber light spilling out into the hallway like an invitation to her own destruction.
