The basement of Smith Manor seemed more alive than ever that night. The cool light of the industrial LED lamps, installed in precise rows on the high stone ceiling, bathed the space in a clinical white that contrasted with the subtle warmth emanating from Erick's body. He sat in the ergonomic chair he had designed and built himself—aerospace foam covered in transmuted synthetic leather, with silent hydraulic adjustments and pressure sensors that molded perfectly to his posture. His back straight, his forearms resting on padded armrests, his blue eyes fixed on the wall of curved monitors that formed a semicircle around him like a war cockpit.
Four days.
Four days since Black Mask's contract exploded like a fragmentation grenade in Gotham's underworld.
Four days of relentless hunting.
Four days in which Erick and Artemis became synonymous with terror for any mercenary or assassin who dared to accept the 10 million per head.
The central screen displayed a 3D map of the city, updated in real time. Red dots—confirmed targets—blinked and disappeared one by one. Some went out with a low, satisfying "eliminated" sound. Others flashed orange: "withdrawal detected" or "abandonment of contract." Natasha had cross-referenced data from encrypted channels, dark web forums, intercepted police radio communications, and even conversations captured by drones that Erick had sent to fly over strategic points. The result was crystal clear.
Overwhelming.
Twenty-seven groups neutralized or dissolved in the last four days. Current dropout rate: 41%. The initial reward of 10 million per person was no longer considered viable by most mid-level recruiters. The general perception in the underworld was that the risk outweighed the return.
Artemis stood beside him, arms crossed, hips resting on the edge of the table. She wore black compression leggings and a gray cropped top that revealed the defined waistline and smooth ribcage of her abdomen. Her blonde hair, still damp from the shower she'd taken after her last patrol, fell loose over her shoulders. Her green eyes followed the same map, but her expression was more tense than his.
"They're really giving up," she murmured, almost to herself. "Last night, when I took down that group of six in the East End… two of them threw their weapons on the ground before I even released my second arrow. They said it wasn't worth dying for ten million."
Erick didn't answer immediately. His fingers drummed lightly on the armrest of the chair, an almost unconscious rhythm. He wore only a tight black tank top and gray sweatpants—home clothes, clothes for someone who no longer needed to hide inside their own fortress. The muscles of his arms and chest, forged by years of solitary training and now accelerated by symbiosis with the elemental, stood out under the cold light. Thin, almost imperceptible scars crisscrossed his skin: reminders of tests with fire, of falls, of nights when his body almost gave way.
The narrative of the last four days was brutal and bloody.
Deadshot was the first big name to fall.
Floyd Lawton—the perfect marksman, the man who never missed a shot—was operating alone, as always. He had positioned himself atop a building in the Narrows, his rifle disassembled beside him, scope set to a range of 1,200 meters. His target: the blonde archer who had been humiliating Sionis's contractors. He hadn't counted on her speed.
Artemis located him first. Using one of the tracking arrows Erick had created—tipped with micro-GPS and an encrypted signal—she followed the thermal trail to the roof. She climbed the outside fire escape, silent as a shadow. By the time Deadshot sensed her presence, it was too late. An ice arrow pierced his right thigh, freezing the muscle and immobilizing his leg. He tried to draw his spare pistol with his left hand—Artemis was already on top of him. A knee to the stomach made him gasp with a hoarse grunt. An elbow to the temple followed. The sniper fell sideways, unconscious before hitting the ground. Artemis bound his wrists with reinforced titanium cuffs and left a note embedded in his thigh with an arrow: "Next."
KGBeast was more complicated.
Anatoly Knyazev — the Russian assassin with cybernetic implants and a knife he treated as an extension of his arm — didn't work alone. Seven henchmen accompanied him in an abandoned warehouse near the port. They formed a tight perimeter: automatic rifles, fragmentation grenades, night vision. KGBeast was in the center, planning the next move.
Erick and Artemis attacked in sync.
She entered through the skylight—arrows of expanding foam immobilized three henchmen before they could even raise their weapons. White gas enveloped their bodies, hardening in seconds and trapping them like statues. Erick kicked down the back door with a kick reinforced by the elemental—the metal flew inside as if it were cardboard. The magnetic shield was already raised: a burst of full AK-47 fire ricocheted back, two gunmen falling with their own shots in their chests, screaming in pain.
KGBeast reacted quickly. He drew his knife—a 40 cm blade with grooves for sucking blood—and lunged forward. Erick threw his shield: the disc spun in the air, ricocheted off three walls before returning to his hand like a perfect boomerang. The edge struck KGBeast's shoulder, severing tendon and muscle. The Russian roared, but didn't stop. Artemis descended from the ceiling like a shadow: a low-lethality explosive arrow detonated on the ground at his feet, throwing him backward. Erick lunged forward: shield in front, knee to the stomach, elbow to the temple. KGBeast fell to his knees. Artemis finished: open palm strike to the chin—knocked out instantly.
Twelve hours later the contract rose to 15 million per head. Total: 30 million.
Sionis was in a panic.
Erick slowly turned his chair until he was facing Artemis.
"In the next few days, Deathstroke will appear," he said, his voice low and steady.
Artemis turned her face towards him. Her green eyes met his.
"I feel that way too," she replied. "He's not like the others. He doesn't accept a contract like that for the money. He accepts it because it's a challenge. And we... we've become a challenge he can't ignore."
She took a deep breath, uncrossing her arms. For the first time in days, Erick saw something different in her face. It wasn't exactly fear—Artemis wasn't afraid of death—but a raw, almost painful worry.
"Erick…" she began hesitantly. "Don't you think… maybe it would be better if I called Jade?"
He frowned.
"Jade? Cheshire?"
She nodded, looking at the floor for a second before raising her eyes again.
"She's an assassin. One of the best. And… she's my sister. If Deathstroke comes after me, she'll want to protect me. Even if it's just out of family pride. She can help. She can even the odds."
Erick remained silent for several long seconds. His eyes never left hers.
"No," he said finally. "We don't need her."
Artemis opened her mouth to protest, but he continued before she could speak.
"It's not pride. It's not arrogance. It's calculation. If we call Jade, we'll be admitting—even if only to ourselves—that we're afraid. That we need outside help to face a man. And that changes the dynamic. It changes how we see ourselves. It changes how they see us. I won't allow Deathstroke to think, not for a second, that we need reinforcements to face him."
He rose slowly from his chair, approaching her. Artemis did not recoil, but her shoulders tensed slightly.
"I've calculated the odds," he continued, his voice low and firm. "They're not good. They're tough. Very tough. But they exist. And as long as they exist, I'll play with the cards I have. And the cards I have are you, me, the elemental, the equipment, the training… and the will not to lose."
Artemis stared at him for long seconds. Her eyes shone with an emotion she rarely let show: genuine fear. Not for herself. For him.
"You're putting yourself at risk," she said, her voice almost breaking. "You're facing all this madness... and sometimes it feels like you forget you have a family. You have your parents. You have your sister. You have... me."
The last word came out almost as a whisper.
Erick felt something tighten inside his chest—not the elemental, but something more human, more fragile.
He slowly raised his hand and touched her face. His fingers slid along her jawline, moving up to her cheek. Her skin was warm, slightly damp with dried sweat from the previous patrol. Artemis didn't move. She only closed her eyes for a moment, as if that touch both hurt and healed at the same time.
"I haven't forgotten," he murmured. "I remember everything. Every day. That's why I do this. So they never have to be afraid again. So you never have to be afraid again."
He took a step forward. Now they were so close they could feel each other's warmth. Her scent—clean sweat, the leather of her uniform, a subtle hint of vanilla from her hair—overwhelmed his senses.
Artemis opened her eyes. Tears didn't fall, but they were there, glistening at the edges of her eyelashes.
"I don't doubt you," she whispered. "But I fear you're overestimating yourself. That you think you can carry the world on your own."
Erick cupped her face in both hands now, his thumbs gently tracing her cheekbones.
"I'm not alone," he said. "I have you."
And then he kissed her.
It was slow at first. Almost hesitant. His lips touched hers with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with all the violence they had shared in recent weeks. Artemis stood still for a split second—surprised, perhaps—before responding. Her hands moved up to his chest, fingers spread, pressing against his tank top, feeling the warmth of his skin and the rapid beating of his heart.
The kiss gradually intensified. He tilted his head, deepening the contact. She opened her mouth, letting him in. Tongues met—timid at first, then hungry. A low moan escaped her throat, vibrating against his lips. Her hands slid to the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. His fingers trailed down her back, tracing her spine through the thin fabric of her top, feeling each vertebra, each tense muscle.
They kissed as if the world were ending. As if every second could be their last.
There was no rush to go any further. Not that night. Not at that moment.
Her lips moved with a restrained urgency, exploring, savoring. She tasted salty with sweat, sweet with something indefinable—perhaps the lip gloss she wore, perhaps just herself. Erick felt her heart pounding against his chest, its erratic rhythm aligning with his. Her hands tightened around the nape of his neck, her nails lightly scratching the skin at the base of his neck. He responded by pulling her by the waist, pressing their bodies together until there was no space between them.
The kiss grew heavier. More urgent. Their breaths mingled in gasps, nostrils flared as they gasped for air. Tongues danced in increasingly deep, possessive movements. A low, hoarse sound escaped Erick's throat as she lightly bit his lower lip—not hard, just enough to send an electric shock down his spine. He returned the gesture, nibbling hers, pulling gently, eliciting another muffled moan.
His hands slid down to the base of her back, fingers spread, pressing against the curve of her lower back, feeling the firm muscles beneath the fabric. She arched her body against his instinctively, her breasts pressing against his chest through the thin layers of clothing. The heat of their bodies mingled, the dried sweat of hours past becoming a thin film that made each touch more intimate, more electric.
They separated just enough to breathe, foreheads pressed together, noses brushing, mouths slightly parted and swollen. Her eyes were dark, pupils dilated, gleaming with a mixture of desire, fear, and something deeper—absolute trust.
"I promise you…" Erick murmured, his voice hoarse and low, almost a purr. "...this will end in the next few days. If it doesn't end tomorrow, I guarantee it will end the day after. This headache, this hunt… it will end. And after that… we can continue making progress. Together."
Artemis closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in his air, feeling the heat emanating from his body like a living furnace.
"Then I trust you," she whispered.
And there, in the silence of the basement lit only by the monitors, with the map of Gotham still flashing in the background, they remained embraced for long minutes — two warriors, two souls burning in the same fire, ready to face whatever came their way.
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