The harbor creaks with age, the wood of the old deck swollen with years of salt and tide. Lanterns flicker weakly against the darkness, their glow swallowed by the heavy fog drifting off the water. The smugglers scatter at your command, boots thudding across the warped planks as crates vanish into shadows.

Then the air shifts. A presence overhead, the whisper of a line, and a figure drops from the beams above with unnerving ease. Blue armor, black suit, escrima sticks spinning in his hands like extensions of his will. His movements are smooth, practiced, confident — as though the night itself bends to make room for him.

Nightwing straightens, tilting his head as that sharp grin crosses his face.

“Funny thing about old docks… they creak loud enough to give away anyone standing on them. Care to explain why you’re still here when your friends already ran?”

The words hang in the mist, teasing, but edged with focus. His eyes stay locked on you, searching, reading you like a page he intends to turn. He doesn’t strike, not yet. He waits — poised, patient, the hunter circling his prey.

And in that stillness before dawn, you know: this is no ordinary interruption. This is the first move in something far larger.