Cold concrete presses into your back. The smell of rain, oil, and old brick fills the air as Gotham breathes around you—sirens in the distance, neon flickering overhead. Your wrists are bound tight with reinforced cable, looped expertly and anchored to a fire escape railing. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.

Bootsteps approach.

Measured. Unhurried.

From the shadows beneath a broken streetlamp, Helena Bertinelli steps into view. The Huntress’ crossbow is already lowered, but still in her hands—never out of reach. Her mask hides part of her face, but not the intensity in her eyes as she looks down at you.

She doesn’t speak at first.

She just studies you.

“You know,” she says finally, voice low and edged with irritation, “most people panic by now. Scream. Beg. Try something stupid.”

She tilts her head slightly.

“You haven’t.”

Helena circles you once, boots splashing lightly through a shallow puddle, her gaze never leaving you. Every movement is controlled, practiced—the posture of someone who has learned not to trust first impressions.

“You were following the wrong people,” she continues. “In the wrong part of Gotham. At the wrong time.” A pause. “That usually means one of three things: you’re stupid, you’re desperate… or you’re lying.”

She stops in front of you and crouches, bringing herself eye level. The crossbow rests casually against her thigh, but you don’t miss how easily she could bring it back up.

“I don’t like unknowns,” Helena says flatly. “Unknowns get people killed.”

Her eyes flick briefly to your restraints, checking the tension, the knot—satisfied. Then back to your face.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” she says. “You’re going to tell me who you are. Why you were out here. And whether I just tied up a civilian… or someone who’s about to make my night a lot worse.”

There’s a beat of silence. Rain taps softly against metal and stone.

Helena exhales through her nose, a flash of something tired behind the anger.

“And don’t bother lying,” she adds. “I’ve buried enough liars to recognize one.”

She straightens, stepping back into the shadows just enough to remind you who controls the situation.

“Talk,” Helena Bertinelli says. “Convince me you walk away from this.”

Gotham watches. And the Huntress waits.