Rain fell in sheets that evening, turning the cobblestones of Iron Square into black glass.
The gas lamps sputtered against the storm, their weak glow distorting into halos. Jonathan Wayne moved through the alleyways with his coat drawn tight, the brim of his hat shadowing his face.
He had been following the ledgers, the shipments Scrap uncovered, and all signs pointed back to Blackthorn hands.
His boots splashed through shallow puddles as he turned into a narrow passage behind the old distillery. He knew he was being followed. The weight of it pressed against his spine, familiar as the breath before a strike.
He didn't need to wait long.
A whisper cut through the rain: the faint scrape of a blade being drawn then she stepped out.
Nina Blackthorn.
She moved with the quiet grace of a dancer, the storm slipping off her black coat as if it were oil.
Her eyes those cold, pale eyes Jonathan remembered from childhood masquerades at Blackthorn manor fixed on him with a predator's calm.
In her hand gleamed a knife, long and thin, the steel catching every stray flicker of light.
"Jonathan Wayne," she said softly, though the storm nearly drowned her words. "You walk alleys you shouldn't."
Jonathan didn't reach for his revolver he knew Nina.
The knife wasn't a threat; it was a promise. "And you steal daughters who don't belong to you," he replied, voice low.
Her lips curved into a faint, unreadable smile. "Delilah Boone. Such a fragile bird. You should be asking why the Owe want her, not where she's gone."
Jonathan's jaw tightened. He took a step closer, his boots crunching glass underfoot. "Then tell me."
The knife flashed she lunged not wild, not sloppy precise a thrust meant for his ribs. Jonathan twisted aside, the blade grazing his coat instead of his flesh.
He countered with a shove, sending her stumbling back into the brick wall.
But Nina did not falter she flowed with the motion, rebounding, spinning the knife in her grip. The storm roared, but their silence was louder.
Steel hissed through the air again, striking sparks as it scraped brick inches from Jonathan's face.
"You still fight like a Wayne," she murmured, circling him.
"Strong. Predictable."
Jonathan drew his revolver at last, cocking it with a sharp click. "And you fight like a Blackthorn hiding behind shadows and knives."
Nina stilled her knife hovered, the rain running red where it had already sliced his hand. Her voice dropped to a whisper, intimate and cutting. "Your brother already wears the mask."
The words landed harder than the blade. Jonathan's stomach turned cold, though he forced his face to remain stone. "Abe would never"
"He already has." Her smile widened, almost pitying. "Elijah gave him the mask. He put it on willingly. He didn't fight it. He didn't hesitate."
Jonathan's heart pounded. The image of Abe his younger brother, his shadow, the boy who once clung to his side wearing the Owe's circle mask seared itself into his mind. He wanted to believe it was a lie. But Nina's eyes told no lies; she didn't need to.
His grip on the revolver tightened. "You expect me to believe you."
Nina tilted her head. "I expect you to bleed."
She lunged again this time Jonathan fired the shot thundered through the alley, echoing against the walls. But Nina was already gone, melting into the storm the bullet slammed into brick, fragments spraying into the rain.
He spun, searching, but she moved like smoke the knife flashed once more this time at his throat. He barely ducked, the edge slicing a lock of his hair. He slammed his shoulder into her, grappling, forcing her against the wall. The revolver clattered into a puddle.
For a heartbeat they struggled in silence, her knife pressing against his collarbone, his hands gripping her wrist with every ounce of strength. Rain ran down both their faces, mingling with sweat and blood.
Then Nina's voice, ragged with breath, cut the night: "You can't save them, Jonathan not Delilah, Not Isadora ,not Abe you fight shadows, and shadows always win."
Jonathan wrenched her wrist, forcing the blade aside. For the briefest moment, her pale eyes flickered hesitation? Or something else?
She could have driven the knife into his throat. Instead, she twisted, slipped free, and shoved him hard into the wall. By the time he regained his footing, she was already retreating into the rain, her figure dissolving into the storm.
Jonathan retrieved his revolver, chest heaving, blood dripping from his palm where her blade had cut deep. He stared into the empty alley, her words still echoing.
Your brother already wears the mask.
Lightning cracked across the sky Jonathan slid down the wall, clutching his bleeding hand, the revolver heavy in his other.
For the first time since the Owe began their hunt, he felt the city tilting against him not just shadows, not just whispers, but his own blood turning traitor.
And somewhere, beneath the streets, Abe's choice had already been made.