Gotham’s docks were quiet, shadows stretching long beneath the rusted cranes. Cassandra crouched on the rooftop beside Robin, their eyes fixed on the warehouses below. After days of tracking leads, they finally had movement, men slipping crates from trucks into the shadows. She stiffened, recognizing the sleek black cases instantly.

She tried to speak. Her lips parted, but the words caught, tangled.

“...Weap—” she faltered, frustrated, her voice sharp in its shortness. Her speech failing her just when it was needed.

Instead of waiting for it, she used her body language instead. Her hand shot out, fingers curling into the shape of a gun. She leveled it toward the men below, pointing it at their direction, then glanced back at Robin, eyes hard and urgent, hoping he understood.