CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: THE HAND THAT GUIDES

The Calculator’s smile didn’t waver as he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “You’ve made quite the impression,” he said, voice laced with amusement. “An unknown variable, they called you. But you’ve become something far more… promising.”

Taylor’s stance shifted slightly, boots scraping against the cracked flooring. “You used the gang war to test me.”

“No,” Calculator corrected smoothly. “They did.”

She went still.

“They saw something in you,” he continued, still seated, fingers tapping idly against the armrest. “Something that could be shaped, honed… weaponized.” His head tilted slightly, studying her as if seeing past her skin, into the raw potential beneath. “And they were right.”

Her fingers curled into fists.

It had all been a lie.

Every fight, every step, every choice she’d made—anticipated. Accounted for. Encouraged.

Weeks spent tearing through Gotham’s underworld, cutting supply lines, dismantling operations—she’d thought she was disrupting their plans.

She wasn’t.

She was proving herself.

To them.

The Calculator’s amusement didn’t dim as he studied Taylor’s reaction. “The Pit wasn’t their doing,” he admitted easily. “But when fate hands you a miracle, you don’t question it—you use it.”

Taylor’s fingers twitched at her sides. The Pit? Was he talking about the green liquid, the surge of impossible energy that had dragged her back from death? She remembered waking up gasping, her veins burning with something she hadn’t understood. She’d thought it was random. A fluke. And in the chaos that followed, she had never stopped to question it. Never even thought to look into it.

A mistake.

The League saw it differently.

“They don’t know how you survived it,” the Calculator continued. “For that matter, they don’t even know how you got there. Someone had to put you in the Pit, and whoever it was—” he tilted his head, “—they either had plans for you or didn’t live long enough to see them through.”

His gaze sharpened. “Most go mad. Some become monsters. But you? You came back whole.”

Taylor’s jaw tightened beneath her mask.

“That’s not an accident—it’s a sign.”

A sign. Like she was some kind of chosen weapon.

Taylor had known for weeks now that she was different. She wanted to deny it, to tell him he was wrong. But the words caught in her throat because, deep down, in the quiet moments between fights—when the adrenaline faded and she was left alone with the truth—she knew.

She was faster. Stronger. More resilient.

She didn’t tire like she used to. Didn’t ache the same way.

She was now a Brute. 

Before she could retort, the shadows behind the Calculator shifted. Figures emerged—League of Shadows operatives, their movements silent, their blades catching the dim light. They didn’t attack. Not yet.

They were waiting.

“The Pit chose you,” the Calculator said, spreading his hands like this was all so reasonable. “Now the question is—will you choose them?”

Taylor’s pulse roared in her ears.

This wasn’t recruitment. It was a coronation.

“I’m not joining them.”

Calculator’s smile didn't dim. If anything, it deepened, like he’d expected that answer. “I thought you might say that.”

The first blow came from behind.

Taylor barely twisted in time, dodging the whisper of steel aimed at her ribs. The assassin melted into the shadows before she could counter, but she was already moving, flipping back as another figure lunged from the side.

Taylor spun, channeling all her momentum into a kick aimed at the nearest attacker’s sternum. Her heel struck clean and he staggered, but didn’t fall—his armor absorbed the brunt of the impact, dulling the blow. He seamlessly shifted into a combat stance like it was nothing.

The shadows moved. More figures emerged.

Too many.

Her mind calculated the odds, mapping every angle, every opening, every inevitable outcome. And for the first time in a long time, she knew—she wasn’t making it out of this alone.

And then the rooftop caved in.

Batman dropped like a hammer, his cape snapping wide, swallowing the dim light as he landed between Taylor and the assassins. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His presence alone shifted the battlefield—imposing, inevitable.

Nightwing followed a second later, vaulting off a charred support beam, his escrima sticks crackling with electricity as he dove straight into the fight.

Spoiler landed in a crouch beside Taylor, staff already extended, her breath steady despite the unfolding chaos.

In an instant, the odds had changed. 

“Don’t,” Spoiler warned, though Taylor wasn’t sure if it was meant for her or the circling assassins.

The Calculator sighed, as if mildly inconvenienced. “Predictable.” He stood, adjusting his coat with practiced ease. “Think on it, Taylor. You’ve already proven you can play their game. The only question is—how far are you willing to take it?”

With that, he stepped back, the assassins surging forward to cover his retreat. He didn’t run, didn’t rush—just walked away, as if the outcome was already set in stone.

There were too many questions and not enough answers—the Pit, the League of Shadows’ interest in her, the fact that the Calculator had spoken her real name so casually. Each one demanded her attention, demanded that she stop and think.

But there was no time for that.

The assassins struck as one, blades flashing in the dim light.

Taylor took a sharp breath, forcing the thoughts away. She couldn’t afford hesitation. Not here. Not now.

Her body reacted before her mind could catch up—ducking low, pivoting smoothly, her foot snapping out in a kick toward the nearest attacker’s knee. He shifted just in time, absorbing some of the impact, but she was already moving, falling into step beside Spoiler without hesitation. 

The two of them worked in tandem—Spoiler struck high, Taylor swept low, their strikes brutal and swift.

She didn’t know how deep this went, how far they had planned for her actions. But there was one thing she knew with absolute certainty.

She wasn’t going to let them decide her fate.

More assassins flooded in. The fight turned into a blur of movement, blows exchanged, dodged, countered.

The Pit had evidently left her more than human. But the League of Shadows had spent centuries perfecting the art of killing. And they weren’t slowing down.

The first assassin barely had time to react before her elbow smashed into his throat. His choked gasp was lost in the din of battle.

Another came from her left—she caught his wrist mid-strike, twisted, and drove her knee into his ribs hard enough to hear something snap.

A whisper of movement behind her—she felt it more than saw it. She ducked low, letting her attacker’s momentum send them stumbling past.

But they kept coming.

It wasn’t enough.

It was never going to be enough.

And then—

A voice. Smooth, feminine, cutting through the noise.

“That’s enough.”

The fighting stopped.

Like a switch had been flipped, the League of Shadows abruptly pulled back, retreating in perfect sync—ignoring their wounds, disregarding the battle’s momentum.

A woman. Dark hair, poised, radiating authority with every measured step.

Not an assassin. Not just another agent of the League.

Taylor’s breath came fast, but she forced herself to stand firm. The League had tested her. Pushed her. Watched her.

And now, someone important had come to see the results for herself.