CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: NO TURNING BACK

The warehouse loomed ahead, another relic of Gotham’s urban decay—rusted walls, shattered windows, security lights flickering like dying embers. It looked abandoned, forgotten. But Taylor knew better.

The Calculator was here.

Weeks of relentless work had led to this moment—tracking shipments, breaking enforcers, burning safehouses to the ground. She had carved a path through the city’s underbelly, and finally, someone had cracked. Now, there was nothing left to do but finish it.

She moved like a shadow, slipping through a side entrance, breath steady. The air was thick with the scent of oil and dust, old machinery lining the walls like silent watchers. The space was wide. Too wide.

Too exposed.

The feeling crept in at once, a whisper of unease curling at the back of her mind. Something was wrong.

She stepped forward carefully, scanning for movement. No guards. No sentries. No sign of the Calculator.

Just silence.

Then the lights went out.

A blade hissed through the air. Taylor twisted just in time, the edge biting shallow instead of sinking deep. Another strike came from behind—she ducked, instincts taking over as steel sliced the space where her head had been.

She rolled forward, hitting the ground and springing into a crouch. Shadows moved in the darkness—silent, graceful. Assassins. Too many to count.

Of course. The Calculator had never been working alone. She’d let herself forget that.

No time for regrets.

She moved—fast, brutal. A knife flashed toward her throat. She caught the wrist, twisted, snapped. No scream. Another assassin lunged. She drove an elbow into his ribs, felt the armor give—but a third was already there, blade slicing toward her heart. She barely twisted away in time.

They were good. Too good.

She’d fought gangsters, enforcers, the worst Gotham had to offer. But the League wasn’t Gotham’s worst. It was something else entirely.

And she was outmatched and outmanned.

They pressed in—relentless, overwhelming. A blade bit into her shoulder, slicing deep. A kick drove her back, her spine slamming against rusted metal. She forced herself up, breath ragged, muscles screaming.

She wasn’t getting out of this.

A figure loomed before her, sword raised. No hesitation. No flashy movement. The killing blow was coming.

Then something blurred past her—a streak of blue, a crack of impact.

The assassin staggered, crumpling before he could strike.

Nightwing.

He moved fast—faster than her, despite her enhancements—his batons flashing through the dark. A whirlwind of accurate strikes, effortless dodges, seamless counters. Every motion wasn't wasted. Every opening was denied.

And still, there were too many.

“Move!” Nightwing snapped, deflecting a blade meant for her back.

Taylor didn’t hesitate. Pain burned through her side, sharp and hot, but she pushed forward. They fought side by side, cutting a path through the assassins, weaving between rusted equipment and shattered crates. 

But it wasn’t smooth.

They had never fought together before, and it showed. Nightwing moved like a dancer, every motion effortless, each strike flowing seamlessly into the next. Grace and precision, honed by years of experience, turning the chaos of battle into something almost artful. On the other hand, Taylor was relentless, direct, fighting like she always had: brutal and unyielding. 

They weren’t in sync. He stepped where she moved, she swung where he dodged, their rhythms clashing instead of uniting as one.

It didn’t matter.

Every second mattered. Every step was survival. The League pressed in, as relentless as she was, closing the gaps before they could take them. A blade nearly caught her side—Nightwing knocked it away. She drove an elbow into an assassin’s throat—he was already pivoting, forcing her to adjust mid-motion. It was messy, reactive, too close.

This wasn’t a fight they were winning, not as they were.

It was one they were barely escaping.

The moment they were through the emergency exit, Nightwing seized her wrist. They hit the alley hard, and then they were running, feet pounding against pavement. No time to argue. No time to stop. No time to look back.

Only when they were deep in the Narrows, hidden in the maze of streets and alleys, did he let go.

Taylor took a step away from him, breathing heavily. “I had it handled.”

Nightwing turned on her, jaw tight. “No, you didn’t.”

Her fists clenched. She was still bleeding, her body screaming, adrenaline fading into raw exhaustion—but none of it mattered.

She had the lead. She was this close.

And now it was gone.

“You’re spiraling,” Nightwing said, his voice calm, controlled—but edged with something hard. “You think this ends with the Calculator? It doesn’t. You’re tearing through Gotham like you’re the first person who’s ever tried to change it.”

Taylor stepped forward. “And what would you have me do? Wait?”

“Yes.”

The immediacy—the certainty—of his reply stopped her cold. 

“You’re not invincible, Wraith,” he continued. “And you’re not untouchable. Keep going like this, and you will get yourself killed. Or worse.”

She shook her head. “I don’t care.”

His expression didn’t change, but something in the air around him did.

“That’s the problem,” he murmured.

Taylor turned away, looking out over the city. Gotham stretched before her, vast and dark. Somewhere out there, the Calculator was still moving his pieces. The League wasn’t done.

But neither was she.