The courthouse loomed above the city like a monolith, its stones blackened by years of soot and corruption.
Rain slicked streets reflected the flickering torchlight, turning the alleys into rivers of fire and shadow.
Jonathan was chained beneath the central steps, wrists raw and bleeding from iron cuffs that bit into his skin. His chest rose and fell in heavy, controlled breaths, the taste of blood thick in his mouth.
Around him, the echoes of the Court Below rose from hidden chambers, chanting low, a rhythm that seeped into his bones.
The air smelled of smoke, incense, and something fouler, something alive.
He could feel it crawling over his skin, pressing against his mind, whispering reminders of every debt, every secret, every betrayal that had led him here.
He strained against the chains.
The cold iron did not yield.
He looked up and saw torches moving along the steps above, masked figures standing in careful formation, silent yet ominous.
Their hoods hid faces, but in the flickering light, one figure's posture seemed unnervingly familiar.
Jonathan's heart tightened. Was it his imagination? A trick of the shadows? He could not be sure.
From the top of the stairs, Elijah Blackthorn emerged, tall and imposing. His mask reflected the torchlight, sharp lines cutting through the mist.
He carried a ceremonial blade, its edge blackened by ritual fire. As he approached, every movement was deliberate, slow, meant to assert dominion over not just Jonathan, but the entire courthouse.
"You stand at the center of your debt," Elijah's voice rang, even in the pouring rain. "A Wayne bloodline is required. You will honor it."
Jonathan's hands clenched.
His mind raced.
He had trained for years, fought the city's corruption, faced ritualistic killings and shadowy conspiracies but never had he imagined the culmination of it would be like this: alone, bound, and surrounded by enemies who believed in a power older than Gotham itself.
Footsteps echoed along the wet stone.
Jonathan felt the ground tremble as more masked enforcers filed in, carrying chains, ropes, and heavy ceremonial implements.
Some were whispering to each other, others standing silent, their intent clear in every controlled motion.
Crane's voice suddenly cracked through Jonathan's thoughts, though he was nowhere to be seen. "Hang tight, Jonathan! We're not letting them end this tonight!"
Jonathan tried to call back, but the words stuck in his throat. He could hear movement above, the scrape of metal against stone, the faint hum of chanting that penetrated the stone walls of the courthouse like a living thing.
The Owe's power was palpable here, almost sentient, pressing down on him, trying to weigh his resolve down to nothing.
A sudden spark from one of the torches ignited a small puddle of oil along the steps.
The fire hissed, steam rising in thick clouds, smoke curling around the masked figures like serpents. Jonathan seized the moment to twist his wrists, wrenching the cuffs against the chain links.
Pain flared, sharp and consuming, but he didn't stop. Every strike, every struggle was a message: he would not go quietly.
Above, Elijah's laughter cut through the smoke and the storm.
"Do you feel it, Wayne? The city itself demands tribute. Blood is the foundation, and tonight it will be paid!"
Jonathan's eyes scanned the steps, noting weak points in their formation, shadows he could exploit.
He remembered the tunnels beneath the city, the passages Vale had hinted at, the maps Scrap had stolen. Freedom was not impossible but it would require every ounce of strength, every fragment of cunning.
The crowd of masked enforcers shifted, sensing his movement. One stepped forward, raising a baton with a wicked spike at its tip.
Jonathan braced himself, twisting just in time to avoid the strike, the metal grazing his shoulder. Pain exploded through his muscles, but he countered, kicking the assailant into the slick stone, sending him sprawling.
Crane's shout echoed from the shadows, a signal that the rescue was underway.
Jonathan's heart lifted.
He wasn't entirely alone.
Somewhere above the rain-soaked steps, somewhere in the chaos, his allies were moving, planting explosives, preparing the diversion that would save him.
The altar, at the top of the steps, glowed with an unnatural light. Candles, ash, and blood had been arranged in a circle, symbols etched into the stone that pulsed faintly.
Elijah stood at its center, his blackened blade in hand, chanting in a low, resonant tone. The power radiated outward, pressing Jonathan to the ground with the weight of generations.
With a guttural roar, Jonathan strained again against his chains.
His mind sharpened this was no longer about survival alone.
Every step, every breath, every movement counted toward dismantling The Owe's grip.
A sudden explosion rocked the steps, a flash of light and fire erupting near the altar.
Some masked figures were thrown to the ground, shrieking. Smoke and debris filled the air. Jonathan seized the moment. He kicked, twisted, and finally snapped the chains free, bloodied but unbroken.
He rose to his knees, vision blurred, chest burning. The chant above faltered, then returned, louder, angrier, filled with panic.
The enforcers were regrouping, but the rhythm of the chaos had shifted. Now it was Jonathan who dictated the tempo.
Crane appeared from the shadows, throwing a chain to Jonathan. "Move, now!"
Scrap emerged from a side passage, carrying a bundle of explosives and map fragments. He tossed them toward the steps. "Time to turn their fire back on them!"
Jonathan seized the moment, rising fully, fists bloodied and shaking with adrenaline.
He leapt toward the altar, dodging blows, kicking aside enforcers, smashing torch flames with his body to create bursts of smoke that hid their movements.
Above, Elijah's masked enforcers fought to regain control, but the chaos had taken hold. Fires sparked in multiple locations, smoke choking the chamber. The rhythmic chanting was broken, replaced by cries of alarm and confusion.
Jonathan's eyes caught the figure at the edge of the crowd again. Familiar, impossibly familiar.
A shadow that mirrored his brother's stance, a movement that his mind refused to reconcile. Was it memory? Grief? Or something Elijah had summoned from the darkness? He didn't have time to think. The altar, the ritual, the city's fate all demanded action.
He darted forward, flames licking at his heels, adrenaline lending him strength. Every step, every breath, every strike was a defiance, a message to Elijah and the city itself: a Wayne would not die quietly, would not submit.
With Crane and Scrap covering his flanks, Jonathan surged toward the altar, toward the ritual that had held Gotham in thrall for centuries. The rain poured, fire roared, and shadows danced across the blackened stones.
In that moment, Jonathan realized something profound: if they wanted his blood, they would not get it without fire.
And in the chaos of the courthouse, the city began to burn.