INTERLUDE: NIGHTWING

Gotham never changed.

The faces did. The skyline shifted with every disaster, every rebuilding effort, every new crime lord who decided they wanted a piece of it. But Gotham itself? The city had a way of grinding people down, of wearing on you until you either adapted or broke.

Dick Grayson had spent years thinking he’d left it behind. That he’d moved past the shadows of his past, past the man who raised him.

But every time he came back, the city pulled him in like it always had.

And tonight, it had led him to the Narrows.

Perched on the edge of a rooftop, Nightwing adjusted the zoom on his mask’s HUD, scanning the streets below. The Narrows had always been rough, but in the past few weeks, something had shifted. The usual chaos was still there—gangs fighting over scraps, criminals preying on the weak, desperation bleeding through the cracks of a city that never had enough to go around.

But now, there was something new in the mix.

A vigilante.

Not one of Bruce’s.

Not one of his either.

That alone made it interesting.

At first, he thought it was just another rumor. But the more he listened, the more obvious it became—someone was moving through the streets, disrupting deals, hitting both Penguin’s and Black Mask’s operations, and doing it well.

Too well.

Dick smirked to himself, watching as a group of Black Mask’s enforcers crept through an alleyway, hauling crates into an unmarked van. Not just any weapons—high-tech and experimental, the kind that didn’t belong in the hands of street-level criminals.

They moved like they were expecting trouble. And judging by the tension in their movements, they weren’t looking for the Bat.

They were looking for her.

No name yet. No confirmed identity. No calling card. Just rumors. A ghost in the Narrows.

A nameless vigilante in Gotham was dangerous. Even with Bruce’s training, his own training, staying ahead of the city’s monsters was a struggle every single night. Anyone trying to operate here without experience was on a suicide run.

That was why he was here tonight—tracking a weapons shipment tied to the gang war. It was a solid lead, one that would either get him closer to shutting down the arms supply or, if he was lucky, draw out the new player.

He got both.

. . . . .

Nightwing rolled his shoulders, then leapt off the ledge, catching a fire escape mid-fall and using it to slow his descent. He landed with nary a sound, slipping into the shadows. The enforcers didn’t notice.

But someone else did.

A flicker of movement. Barely perceptible. But he caught it.

There you are.

He moved quickly, tracking the edges of the scene without revealing himself. He wanted a closer look at her before she bolted.

Then, just as the enforcers passed under a broken streetlight—

A shadow dropped from above.

She darted from cover to cover, striking as she moved. Dark clothing. No insignia. No theatrics. Smart. He could respect that.

The first thug crumpled before he could make a sound—a hit to the knee, then a sharp elbow to the temple. Another tried to turn, and she was already on him, twisting his arm into a brutal takedown.

Okay, definitely not an amateur.

She pressed forward, dismantling the next two with a ruthless smoothness. One went down with a strike to the temple—silent, effective. Another barely had time to react before she spun him around, using his own momentum to slam him into the brick wall hard enough to leave him groaning on the ground.

Her style was practical—not quite Bat-family, but close enough that it set off alarms in Dick’s head.

Then someone far off spotted her.

Shouts rang out. Gunfire erupted.

Not just bullets—energy bolts.

She didn’t run.

She didn’t just react either.

She blurred.

And that’s when Dick realized something was wrong.

The way she dodged—it wasn’t just skill. Not just good reflexes either. Inhuman reflexes.

She was moving faster than she should’ve been, twisting out of the way with split-second precision before the trigger was even pulled.

Then she lunged.

A thug swung an electric baton—she caught his wrist mid-swing and yanked. Too strong. The man's entire body staggered with the force of it, like he'd been pulled by someone much bigger.

She flowed through them with brutal efficiency, taking hits that should’ve slowed her down—but didn’t. A gun stock slammed into her ribs, and she barely faltered. A lucky, desperate punch clipped her jaw, and she shook it off like it was nothing.

Nightwing’s eyes narrowed.

This wasn’t just training. She wasn’t just good.

He had sparred with the best fighters in the world. He had fought alongside them. And this?

She was enhanced.

Maybe not full meta, but definitely something.

And she was operating in Gotham.

That meant he needed to find out why.