The usual hum of Gotham was missing tonight. No sirens, no distant screams—just an eerie silence, thick with tension. Bruce moved through the shadows, his cape barely whispering against the wind. The fight with the Talons had been different tonight. The last one he had taken down muttered something strange before succumbing to the sedative.

"Not supposed to be here. The child—get the child—"

His gut twisted. If the Court was after a child, it could only mean one thing—they were either a target or a new weapon.

Bruce’s eyes scanned the interior of the warehouse as he slipped inside. It was a mess—crates overturned, papers scattered. Someone had been searching—or fleeing.

Then, he saw them.

A small figure huddled in the shadows, barely visible among the fallen beams of a broken shelving unit. The faint glint of metal caught his eye—the gleam of gauntlets, blades, the tattered remnants of an assassin’s uniform. This wasn’t just any child. This was a Talon.

Bruce’s chest tightened.

His voice was steady, low, as he stepped closer. "I’m not going to hurt you."

The child didn’t flinch. Their eyes, cold and unblinking, locked onto him with the sharpness of a predator. Their stance was rigid—trained, like a machine waiting for a command.

They didn’t move, didn’t speak. Their small hands gripped the blade, knuckles white with tension, but they didn’t strike. Not yet.

Bruce took a careful step forward. "You don’t have to listen to them," he said, voice softer now, pleading. "The Court abandoned you. They’ll never stop using you."

For a brief moment, the child’s gaze flickered—just a second, but it was enough. A crack in their conditioning.

Then, the instinct kicked in. The child lunged, knife slashing through the air with deadly precision. No hesitation. No fear. Just obedience.

Bruce caught their wrist, feeling the unnatural strength behind it, but he didn’t hurt them. "They’re using you," he said, his grip firm but gentle. "You don’t have to be their weapon."