Rain slicked the rooftops of Blüdhaven, turning the city lights into smears of blue and gold. Nightwing moved silently, a shadow among shadows, the hum of his escrima sticks faint beneath the distant thunder.
“Oracle,” he murmured into the comm, crouching on the edge of a building overlooking the docks. “You get anything off those files yet?”
Static. Then her voice, calm but strained.
“Still trying. The encryption’s layered — whoever this is, they didn’t want to be found. The metadata’s scrambled, file names wiped. I can’t even pull a name, Dick. Just fragments — movement logs, partial camera feeds, and one codename: Null.”
Nightwing exhaled, eyes scanning the dim sprawl below — warehouses, shipping containers, half-dead floodlights flickering like tired eyes.
“So I’m chasing a ghost.”
“Until I break through the firewall, yeah. You’re on your own for now.”
He smirked faintly, standing. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
He leapt from the rooftop, grapple-line hissing as it caught on a crane beam. The line snapped taut, and he swung low across the rain-swept street, landing in a crouch on the roof of an abandoned freight truck.
Footprints — fresh, light, deliberate — led toward the loading docks. Whoever he was tracking knew how to move. No alarm trips, no sensors triggered. Professional.
“Oracle,” he whispered, kneeling to study the tracks, “this isn’t a street-level job. Too clean.”
“You’re saying we’re dealing with a pro?”
“Or something worse.”
A sound — faint metal scrape. He looked up fast. A silhouette darted between containers.
Instinct took over. He was moving before thought could catch up — rolling over the edge, hitting the ground in a smooth sprint, boots barely splashing in puddles.
The figure ahead was fast — too fast. Their movements were practiced, almost graceful. He caught a glimpse of dark clothing, maybe armor, before they vaulted over a fence and vanished into the fog.
Nightwing stopped, breathing steady, rain dripping from his hairline.
“Lost visual,” he said, scanning with his lenses. Nothing. No heat signatures. No movement. Just the hum of the city swallowing sound.
Oracle’s voice came back, soft but focused.
“Give me a few more minutes. If I can decode this segment, I might get you a lead. Don’t do anything reckless.”
He smiled faintly, half to himself.
“Me? Never.”
He turned toward the fence, eyes narrowing at a faint mark in the mud — a symbol carved into the ground. A circle. Cut clean down the middle.
“Oracle,” he said quietly, “I think I just found their calling card.”
The comm crackled.
“Hold position, Dick. Whatever that is — it’s not random.”
But he was already moving again, drawn deeper into the maze of steel and rain. Because that’s what he did best — chasing ghosts, chasing truth — the old way. No network. No digital trace. Just instinct, grit, and the sound of his heartbeat against the storm.