The streets of Gotham were a tangle of smoke, fire, and fear.
Rain poured from a darkened sky, mixing with the ash drifting from the burning courthouse.
The smell of charred wood and scorched stone stung the lungs, but it did not deter Jonathan, Crane, and Scrap. They moved quickly, purposefully, weaving between overturned carts and debris as they made their way to the hidden entrances of the tunnels below the city.
Crane paused, checking the maps Scrap had stolen. "The Owe doesn't just guard the surface," he muttered. "They've got a labyrinth underneath. Every step is a trap."
Scrap's grin was fierce, despite the grime on his face. "Then let's turn the traps back on them."
Jonathan's eyes scanned the shadows. His wrists were still bruised from the courthouse chains, but adrenaline had replaced pain with focus.
Every movement had to be precise; every step could mean life or death. He had seen what The Owe could do. Entire families, loyal officers, anyone who stood in their way all reduced to ash, all erased. Tonight, that would end.
In the tunnels, crates of stolen gunpowder and crude explosives had been laid out along the walls.
Scrap had spent the last few days gathering supplies, using the secret routes Vale had hinted at.
He worked quickly, stringing together fuses, double-checking the placements. Crane carried a bag of tools, detonators, and extra torches, his veteran hand steady despite the chaos around him.
Jonathan knelt beside Scrap, checking the fuses. "If this works, it won't just scare them," he said quietly. "It'll tear their control apart."
Scrap nodded. "They've used fear for centuries. Let's give them fire instead."
Above them, the city moaned under the weight of the storm. Lightning flashed, illuminating the twisted metal and stone above, casting the tunnels into momentary stark relief.
Jonathan's mind raced with strategy. The Owe had control of every major street, every important building. But the tunnels the arteries beneath the city were vulnerable. If they could destabilize those paths, disrupt the ritual, it might be enough to give Gotham a fighting chance.
Hours passed in tense preparation.
Fuses were lit, explosives positioned, and exits memorized.
Jonathan's chest ached from the stress, but he refused to slow. Every nerve screamed urgency.
He checked the timing again, coordinating with Crane and Scrap, ensuring the chaos above would align perfectly with the detonation below.
Finally, the signal came. A small, controlled fire started near the uppermost tunnel, drawing the masked enforcers out of formation. Jonathan took a deep breath, counting silently. "Three… two… one…"
He ignited the main fuse.
A hiss, a spark, and then the tunnel trembled. A low roar rose from the explosives as fire and smoke erupted from the carefully laid gunpowder.
Crates of debris and rubble flew through the air, collapsing some passages and diverting The Owe's forces. The underground chambers shook violently, stones falling from the walls, dust choking the narrow corridors.
Above, the courthouse erupted in chaos. Torches fell, figures stumbled, and the chanting of The Owe fractured into confused cries.
Jonathan seized the moment, sprinting through the tunnel network, leading Crane and Scrap with him.
They emerged into a partially collapsed chamber just as flames licked the walls, smoke curling around them like a living thing.
Jonathan's hands were blistered, his clothes singed, but he refused to stop.
Each explosion, each collapse, each crack of stone against stone was a strike against centuries of tyranny. The Owe had relied on fear, ritual, and the illusion of control tonight, that illusion was shattered.
Scrap paused for a moment, looking back at the burning tunnels. "They'll rebuild," he said grimly. "But it won't be the same. Not after this."
Jonathan's eyes hardened. "They'll remember we fought. That's enough to start."
The storm outside raged on, lightning splitting the sky and rain hammering the streets. But beneath the chaos, in the tunnels and alleys, hope began to flicker small, fragile, but defiant.
Jonathan knew this was only the beginning. The Owe was wounded, yes, but they were not finished.
Yet for the first time in his life, Jonathan felt the weight of possibility. Gotham might be scorched, streets torn apart, but fire and gunpowder had given him something the city had never seen: a chance to rise from the ashes.