The gravel crunched under Dick's motorcycle tires as he pulled up the long, winding drive to Wayne Manor. The sun was still below the horizon, casting only the faintest light over the estate. Mist clung to the trees like ghostly fingers, and the old manor loomed in the distance, dark and silent.
Dick parked near the garage and quietly dismounted, his duffel slung over one shoulder. He didn't need to knock. The door opened before he reached it-Alfred, of course, already waiting.
"Master Richard," the butler said with a nod, eyes lingering on the tired lines in Dick's face. "He's waiting in the cave."
Dick gave a small nod and stepped inside, boots echoing against the marble floor. It felt strange being back so soon. Stranger still, knowing what he was walking into.
He descended the stone staircase in silence, the flickering torches casting long shadows down the Batcave walls. At the centre console, lit only by the soft glow of monitors, Bruce stood with his arms crossed, cape draped like wings at rest.
"You're early," Bruce said without turning.
"Didn't sleep much," Dick replied, dropping his bag beside the chair.
Bruce finally turned. "Good. You'll need the time."
Dick crossed his arms. "So where do I start?"
Bruce pressed a few keys, and several images came up on the large display. Architectural blueprints. Newspaper clippings. Surveillance shots. Handwritten notes over photos of buildings across Gotham.
"We've been chasing shadows," Bruce said. "But the murder scene last week-the one with the grey feathers-gave us something new. The way the feathers were arranged, the blood spatter pattern, the old family's ties to 19th-century Gotham..."
He tapped a file.
"They're sending a message. And I think I know where it's leading."
A photo of an abandoned tenement flashed on screen-crumbling, forgotten in the Narrows.
"The Maroni Building," Bruce said. "Condemned in 2007. Before that, it was owned by a dummy company connected to a shell trust that runs straight into a Wayne ancestor. Court symbolism carved into the basement supports. Someone's been using it recently."
Dick leaned in. "You think it's a safe house?"
"I think it's a gate," Bruce said darkly. "You won't find the Court unless they want you to. But if you make enough noise-poke the right places, draw attention-they'll come to you. They always do."
Dick studied the screen. "So what's the move?"
Bruce stepped back. "You go in without the mask. No gear. No symbol. You don't even whisper Nightwing. You're Richard Grayson-former circus star, son of billionaire Bruce Wayne, orphan with a dark past, no direction."
"And why would he want to join the Court?" Dick asked.
"Because he's angry," Bruce said. "Because he's disillusioned. Because he believes Gotham is rotting from the inside-and he wants to be part of something powerful enough to control it."
Dick let that sit for a moment. "A part I'll have to sell."
Bruce nodded. "Convincingly."
There was a long silence before Bruce added, "This isn't going to be like any mission you've done before. No net to catch you. No Batfamily backup. You'll be alone."
Dick swallowed. "And what about Barbara?"
Bruce's expression darkened.
"I told you already. You sever contact. The moment they know you care about her-she's dead."
Dick didn't answer.
Because he wasn't sure what he'd do.
Not yet.
*Dick's apartment*
Sunlight crept into the apartment slowly, golden beams slicing through half-drawn blinds. The warmth touched Barbara's face first, stirring her from sleep with its soft insistence.
She stretched slightly, blinking against the light, hand reaching across the bed-only to find cool sheets and an empty space.
Barbara sat up quickly, scanning the room.
"Dick?"
Silence.
Her eyes darted to the duffel bag. Gone.
Her stomach sank.
Barbara pushed herself upright in her chair, heart pounding now. She wheeled into the living room and glanced around. The stillness was suffocating.
Then she saw it.
A small folded note beside her favourite mug on the kitchen counter, weighed down by a spoon.
She rolled closer, hands shaking slightly as she picked it up and opened it.
> Didn't want to wake you.
I'll call when I can.
Be safe, Babs.
- D
Her throat tightened.
No goodbye. No kiss on the cheek. Just a note. And a promise that felt like it might already be breaking.
She looked around again, suddenly aware of how empty the apartment felt without him. They'd had so little time together. And now he was across the world.
Eastern Europe, she reminded herself.
NGO meetings. Wayne Foundation business. That's what he'd told her.
But something in the pit of her stomach didn't sit right. Dick had been distracted. Off. Not just sad-conflicted. He'd looked at her like he wanted to say more.
Barbara wheeled to her desk and powered on her laptop. She opened the tracking hub she'd built for Batfamily missions-encrypted, isolated, secure. Dick's tracker pinged once, then dropped offline.
Expected.
He'd said it was for official Wayne business. The tracker being off wasn't a red flag. Not yet.
Still... she knew him. Knew his rhythms, the way he worked. And something about this felt off. A shadow hanging too close behind the story he was telling.
But she pushed the thoughts aside for now. Trust. That's what they had. What they had to have.
She reached for her phone and set it beside her. Waiting.
Any second now, he'd call.
He had to call.
*The Narrows*
The Narrows had always felt like a part of Gotham that time forgot-narrow alleys, flickering street lamps, windows covered in grime and duct tape. But here, just past a collapsed overpass and a boarded-up deli, stood the Maroni Building.
Once a halfway house for struggling families. Now a ghost.
Dick stood across the street with his hood pulled up, hands in his jacket pockets. No mask. No bat-symbol. No weapons beyond a folding knife in his boot and a burner phone in his pocket. Just Richard Grayson-disgraced, angry, and aimless.
Exactly the kind of man the Court would watch.
The building looked ready to fall in on itself. Cracked bricks, ivy choking the side, and shattered windows on the top floor. But the entrance-though boarded up-had fresh scuff marks on the ground. Recent.
Dick crossed the street and stepped up to the door.
No cameras.
No lights.
He scanned the frame, found the loosened edge of the plywood, and quietly slipped inside.
The air was thick with dust and rot. He moved slowly through the first floor, noting water stains on the walls, collapsed staircases, graffiti. Most of it read like typical urban decay-but a few markings stood out.
On the far wall, almost hidden behind mold and shadow, was a symbol.
An owl.
Not spray-painted. Carved.
Dick ran his fingers over it, noting the depth. Recent work. The edges were still sharp.
He moved deeper into the building, descending into the basement through a creaking service hatch. His boots touched concrete slick with grime. The smell of damp earth hit him like a punch.
Then he saw it.
Candles.
Not lit, but used. Melted down into little wax puddles around an ancient wooden chair. Feathers scattered around the floor-grey, molted.
And a note. Sitting on the chair.
Dick approached cautiously and unfolded the paper.
One word was written in tight, elegant script:
> "Watching."
Dick froze.
His heart thudded against his ribs. Not because he was afraid-but because it meant Bruce was right.
They were watching.
Which meant the game had already begun.
And now, every move he made had to be calculated. Every word spoken, every step taken, every reaction measured.
The Court was pulling him into the maze.
And Richard Grayson was walking in-willingly.
The silence in the basement pressed in like a held breath.
Dick lowered the note marked "Watching", his instincts screaming now. Every hair on his neck stood up.
Too quiet.
Then he heard it.
A faint scrape behind him.
He turned-but it was too late.
A flash of movement from the shadows, swift and silent. A boot struck him in the back, launching him across the basement. He crashed into the floor, rolling instinctively-but another figure descended from the darkness, blades flashing in the gloom.
Talons.
Three of them. Masked, armoured, and moving like wraiths.
Dick barely got his guard up in time to block a downward strike. He twisted, used one attacker's momentum to toss him into another-but the third Talon slipped behind him and drove a punch into his ribs, knocking the air out of him.
He fought fiercely, every move deliberate. But he was outmatched-not in skill, but in preparation. No escrima sticks. No armour. No backup. Just him against assassins bred in shadow.
One Talon swept his legs out. Another stomped down on his chest. The last raised a blade.
Dick's vision blurred.
Then-everything went black.
---
The world returned in fragments.
Dripping water.
Creaking wood.
The low hum of electricity.
Dick's eyes fluttered open. He was tied to a wooden chair-arms lashed tight, ankles bound. A dim, amber light filled the chamber, flickering from gas lanterns along stone walls. The smell was old-dust, mould, and dried blood.
Across from him sat a man in a grey suit and an owl-shaped mask made of pale porcelain. Regal, motionless, like a statue carved from ice.
"Richard Grayson," the masked figure said, voice calm and composed. "You've been very... curious."
Dick stayed quiet. His head throbbed.
"You come into our gate uninvited. You dig into foundations meant to stay buried. You fight our guardians, and yet... you live." The man leaned forward, fingers steepled. "Why?"
Dick licked blood from his lip and forced himself to smile through the pain. "I've always had a thing for history."
The court officer didn't react.
"You're not like the others," he said. "You don't come looking for money. You don't come with threats. You come alone, empty-handed, with nothing but your name and your bloodline."
He stood slowly, circling Dick.
"The circus boy. The ward of Wayne. The prince of Gotham."
He stopped behind the chair.
"We've watched you, Richard. We know what Gotham has done to you. How you've worn one face after another, each a little closer to the truth."
A pause.
"Are you ready to stop pretending?"
Dick didn't answer.
The court officer stepped in front of him again. "Are you ready to become something greater?"
The room grew cold.
And the offer hung heavy in the air.
Dick leaned back in the chair as far as the ropes would allow, letting the weight of the Court officer's question sit between them.
Are you ready to stop pretending?
His heart pounded, the echoes of the Talons' fists still throbbing through his ribs. But he met the owl-masked gaze without flinching.
"...Yeah," he said finally, voice hoarse. "I'm tired of pretending."
The court officer didn't move.
"I've played the billionaire," Dick continued. "The cop, the acrobat, the bleeding-heart charity face. And what has it ever really changed?"
He looked away, jaw tightening.
"Blüdhaven's just as corrupt as Gotham. The Foundation throws money at problems that don't stay fixed. And Bruce-he built a myth that eats its own."
Still no reaction. So Dick leaned into the lie.
"I've watched this city rot from every angle. I've watched the people who claim to protect it become the very thing they swore to fight. So, yeah-I'm done pretending."
His eyes locked with the porcelain mask again.
"If you're going to burn it all down... I want a seat at the fire."
The words hung there like smoke.
Then, slowly, the court officer stepped forward and cut the ropes binding Dick's wrists.
"You speak like someone who has seen Gotham," he said. "You understand what must be done."
Dick flexed his hands, feeling the blood return to his fingers.
"We do not accept members," the officer said. "We invite them. Through service. Through pain. Through loyalty tested and proven."
He handed Dick a folded envelope sealed with wax-an owl insignia pressed into the seal.
"Inside is your first directive. Complete it without question. Do so, and the Court will see your worth."
Dick took it without hesitation, eyes never leaving the mask.
"Good," the man said, stepping back into the darkness. "Let your old life burn, Mr. Grayson. It is ash now."
The door opened behind him with a groan of rusted hinges. The Talons stood waiting.
Dick turned slowly and walked out, envelope in hand, the lies already wrapping tighter around him.
"Where do I go after the mission is completed?" Dick said, looking back at the officer.
"We will find you" the officer said before walking off.
Dick turned and started to walk towards the door with every step forward, took him deeper into the maze of darkness.