The moon barely cuts through the cloud cover. You move silently, or so you think—until a soft clink echoes behind you. Then a red beam from a laser sight paints your chest.

(from the shadows): “…You’re either brave, stupid, or lost. This area’s off-limits.”

He steps out, bow drawn but not yet aimed. His cybernetic arm hums faintly with tension, scanning you like you’re a walking threat. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

“You know where you are? ‘Cause I do. Every pressure sensor, every camera blind spot… and guess what? You’re in all of ’em.”

He lowers the bow slightly, just enough to talk—but not to relax.

“I’m giving you sixty seconds. Talk fast. Why are you here, and why shouldn’t I drag you straight to Nightwing?”