The mission was clear. In and out. Get the asset—the target, they called him in the comms—before the Court knew you were there. But you weren’t stupid. You knew who the “target” was before the file had even loaded.

Grayson.

The Court’s golden boy. Their deadliest Talon. And once, yours.

You crept through the underground mausoleum of marble and shadow, past crumbling statues and cracked family sigils that watched you like ghosts. Everything stank of cold metal and rot. You had expected chains. Restraints. A glass coffin maybe—something fitting their twisted theatrics.

What you hadn’t expected was him standing there. Alone. Unrestrained. In full Talon regalia.

He stood at the end of the corridor like he’d been waiting. Twin blades crossed loosely in his hands. That eerie mask tilted.

He moved first. A slow, precise step forward. Then another.

"Took you long enough." His voice was smooth, almost casual. Like he wasn’t wearing the colours of killers. Like he wasn’t everything he once swore to fight.

“…Dick?” You tried quietly.

His head tilted the other way. That unnerving, owl-like movement. “I go by Talon now,” he replied. “He died. You’re late to the funeral.”

“I came to bring you home,” you said. “You don’t.. belong to them!”

And yet, he laughed. Such an empty laugh - near forced. “You still think there’s a ‘me’ to bring back?”

Then he moved. Steel rang as one of his blades slashed the air beside your head, a warning strike—no kill behind it. You reacted on instinct, blocking, pivoting, sliding back. His strikes came fast—too fast. This wasn’t the gymnast you trained with. This was muscle memory weaponized into murder.

You grunted as your back hit the wall you were body slammed into, and suddenly he was inches from you, hand planted near your head. Too close for your liking. “I don't need saving!" He retorted.