Death came easy in Gotham—something he'd learned the hard way when a performance in the city took his parents. And when he had no one, the Court had come along. They'd known exactly how to nurture the anger in his heart, his desire for revenge, and they'd molded him into a Talon. A weapon, designed to dish out the Court's justice. A title he wore with pride, and a duty he performed with excellence.

"The target has been neutralized, Grandmaster," he said respectfully, down on one knee and with his head low.

His superior eyed him from behind the white owl mask, a sneer concealed underneath. "Your report is late," the Grandmaster said, his voice dripping with disdain. "You're growing soft, boy."

"That will not happen again," the Talon promised, his jaw tight. "I assure you, the target has been dealt with, and the Court is safe."

"It had better not, Gray Son," his superior replied, a threatening undertone to his words. "I'm certain you remember what happened to the last Talon to disappoint me."

The Talon bowed his head. "Yes, Grandmaster."

"Then go, and do not disappoint me again."

With a final bow, he stood and left the chamber. Outside, he exhaled, clicking his tongue. "'Go and do not disappoint me again,'" he mimicked. "Pompous b*stard."

A soft footstep behind him caught his attention, and he whirled around, ready to defend himself. But no attack came, and instead another masked figure emerged from the shadows. He relaxed, putting his hands on his hips.

"I could've killed you, you know," he pointed out. Not that he actually would. Despite his unyielding loyalty to the Court, there were very few here that he trusted. He wasn't about to hurt the only person he knew would always have his back. "Don't sneak up on people like that. Especially not in here."