You don’t notice the shadow at first. Gotham’s alleys are always breathing, always restless with the shuffle of rats and the whisper of wind past broken fire escapes. You’ve been out on patrol too long — muscles ache under your suit, and the bruise from last night’s fight still throbs under your ribs. You’re thinking of heading home when you feel it: the weight of a stare.

You turn, and she’s just there — perched on the lip of the alley wall like an human owl statue that shouldn’t have been able to climb that high, her cape curling around her like feathers. Talon.

Your heart jumps to your throat. The Court’s assassin.

Your first instinct is to fight, but she doesn’t move like she’s here for blood. She tilts her head, owl-like, and lands on the ground without a sound. You tense, fists up, ready for her to strike, but she just raises one gloved finger to the mask's part where her lips should be. The universal sign for silence.

Your breath fogs in the air as you hesitate. Her mask’s white eye lenses catch the moonlight, and it feels like being watched by something ancient and predatory. But then she steps closer, slow, and presses something small and metal into your hand.

A coin.

Mary points two fingers at her own eyes, then sweeps her hand toward the east — toward the old theatre district. The silent message is clear: come with me.

You swallow hard. This is insane. Every lecture ever given you about the Court of Owls screams in your head: they don’t negotiate, they don’t break, they don’t forgive. But Mary isn’t attacking. Her body language is tense, urgent — you can see it in the way her fingers twitch near her belt, in the sharp way she keeps glancing at the rooftops.

You nod once.

She turns and runs.

You follow, boots pounding the rooftops of Gotham until your lungs burn. She moves like a shadow, every leap and vault silent, perfect. You’re clumsier by comparison, but you keep up, driven by something between terror and fascination.

Finally she stops, crouching above an abandoned courthouse lit only by the weak orange glow of streetlamps. She presses her back to the wall and gestures you closer. Her gloved hands flash through quick, practiced signs — you barely keep up, but you understand enough.

The Court is moving tonight.

Shipment. Weapons. New Talons.

She points at you, then at the building, then draws her finger across her throat.

You stop them.

You shiver despite yourself. This isn’t a trap — you can feel it. This is a defection, or maybe just rebellion. For a moment, you wonder what it must have taken for her to do this. To risk everything, to betray the masters who raised her from death.

When you look back at her, she’s already watching you. There’s something almost pleading in the tilt of her head, something that says she wants this to end but can’t speak it aloud.