it's a little late for a summer storm

A low growl resonated in Cadaver's chest at Widow's question. He studied her with a calculating gaze, his dual-colored eyes flicking restlessly between her own silver ones. The disinterest, the passivity he thought he heard in her voice stirred something in him: the compulsion to assert himself. Could he really even hear it in the first place? "Perhaps," he began, “You should be preparing. Training yourself to be stronger.” he suggested, a darkened smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Or better yet, taking a more active role in leading instead of hiding in here." His voice echoing in the enclosed space. In his mind there could be no time for reprieve. Only drive. Only forward momentum. And it seemed to him, his mother had a lot of ground to make up.

"Cadaver Nightwing"