The world swam into focus-slow, hazy, muffled.
Dick Grayson's head throbbed as he blinked awake, the faint scent of old leather and incense thick in the air. His wrists weren't bound, but he was strapped into a bench seat in the back of a sleek, black luxury car. The interior was dim, lit only by small amber lights embedded in the ceiling like stars.
Across from him, seated with hands folded over a polished cane, was the Grandmaster.
The porcelain owl mask stared silently at him for a moment before the voice spoke-measured, composed.
"You wake faster than most."
Dick's gaze slid to the tinted window. Outside, pale yellow lights streaked past.
A tunnel. Long. Curving. Deep beneath Gotham.
He didn't recognize it. Which meant he wasn't meant to.
"Where are we going?" he asked, his voice gravelly.
"To a place only the worthy may see," the Grandmaster replied smoothly. "A sanctum beneath the sanctum."
Dick sat up straighter, trying to push through the last vestiges of the gas. "Was knocking me out really necessary?"
The Grandmaster chuckled softly, tapping the silver tip of his cane against the floor. "Unfortunately, yes. You see... the Court has learned from its mistakes. The last time a Bat found our roost, we paid for our hubris. Our architecture is built on secrecy. Even our own Talons rarely know every path. Each member only sees the part of the labyrinth that suits their role."
"Sounds like a trust issue," Dick said dryly.
"No," the Grandmaster replied, voice icy. "It is survival."
They rode in silence for several seconds, the only sound of the hum of the engine and the ghostly echo of tires on tile.
Then the Grandmaster leaned forward slightly.
"You did well, Grayson. The Hollow Nest. The Trial. The restraint. You showed...discipline."
Dick kept his face unreadable, his posture casual, but every nerve in his body was on alert.
"Thank you," he said simply.
"You're not like the others," the Grandmaster continued. "Brutality for them is instinct. But for you... it's a choice. That's why we are intrigued. That's why you were chosen."
Dick gave a slight nod. "I want in. And I know how to earn it."
"Good." The Grandmaster turned his head slightly, gazing at him through blank owl eyes. "Then be warned: the next steps require not just blood, but loyalty. If you serve the Court well... you will be given a perch of your own."
Dick glanced at the passing tunnel lights again.
"I'm ready," he lied.
The Grandmaster seemed to study him for a long moment, then sat back into the shadows.
"Then let the real work begin."
As the car curved deeper into the earth, Dick felt the weight of the mask still pressing on him. Not the porcelain one they'd given him.
The one he now had to wear, every moment, every breath, until the Court trusted him fully.
Until he could destroy them from the inside.
Or die trying.
The car came to a smooth halt. With a hiss, the doors unlocked.
Dick stepped out first, boots landing on polished black stone veined with silver. The air was colder here-damp with the scent of stone, ancient wood, and something metallic just beneath it.
He looked up.
They were deep underground-beneath the bones of Gotham itself. Pillars carved in old Romanesque style lined the hallway, owl motifs etched into every corner. Gas sconces lit the narrow corridor in a golden hush, flickering as if the walls themselves breathed.
The Grandmaster emerged behind him, adjusting his cloak.
"This way," he said, cane tapping gently as they began to walk side by side down the long corridor.
Dick took everything in without being obvious-doorways, blind corners, and pressure sensors on the floor. The Court's lair wasn't just old. It was alive. Designed to confuse. Designed to trap.
"Where are the others?" Dick asked.
"Scattered," the Grandmaster replied. "Some in training. Others in meditation. Most are... not permitted in this wing."
"Special treatment already?"
The Grandmaster gave a thin chuckle behind the mask. "Not special. Watched."
They turned a corner. A single, heavy iron door stood at the end of the hall. The Grandmaster produced a small brass key and slid it into the lock. With a sharp clunk, the door creaked open.
Dick stepped inside.
His room was small but elegant-stone walls, a carved oak bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and a shelf of old tomes and weapons. A single owl figurine sat atop a pedestal in the corner. No windows. No visible cameras.
But he knew better.
The Grandmaster remained at the threshold.
"This is your quarters," he said. "You will be called when needed. You will eat when summoned. And you will not wander."
Dick turned to face him. "And my role?"
The Grandmaster's tone cooled. "You will act as a shadow. A blade. When we say a name, you erase it. No questions. No deviations. A hitman."
Dick raised a brow. "Not a Talon?"
A beat passed.
The Grandmaster stepped closer, his porcelain mask nearly level with Dick's face. "You once wore the Talon armour. You bled for the court. But the Talon title is reserved only for those who have proved unwavering loyalty. And once loyalty is broken, it must be earned again."
"So I'm on probation," Dick said with a slight smirk.
"You are in purgatory, Grayson," the Grandmaster replied, cold as stone. "Talons are symbols. Icons. You are a tool-sharpened, yes. But still just a tool."
The Grandmaster turned and began to walk away, his voice echoing down the corridor.
"Sleep well. You'll be summoned soon."
The door closed with a heavy thud, locking from the outside.
Dick stood alone in the quiet room, the owl figurine staring at him with hollow, carved eyes.
He walked to the desk and sat down slowly, exhaling through his nose.
This was deeper than infiltration now.
This was a cage.
And the only way out... was through.
The silence in Dick's room was heavy-too perfect. Too intentional.
He waited ten minutes after the Grandmaster's departure, pacing slowly, then sprang into motion. Every movement calculated, every breath under control.
First, he tapped lightly on the walls, listening for hollow spaces. He checked behind the owl statue-nothing but carved stone. He unscrewed the base of the desk lamp, found a micro-mesh lens, and snapped it between his fingers. Camera-silent and low-tech, but watching.
He swept the corners of the room next, eyes sharp. Above the doorframe, another camera. Tiny. Black. It was obvious if you knew what to look for. He disabled it with a sliver of mirror from the back of the wardrobe.
He crouched beneath the bed and ran his fingers along the slats. Sure enough-two listening bugs. One in each back corner.
With the butt of a small knife hidden in his boot, he crushed both.
Finally, he flipped the mattress and found nothing. He waited. Ten more minutes. No alarm. No knock. The Court either hadn't noticed... or wanted to see what he'd do.
That was a risk he'd live with.
He pulled the burner phone from his jacket secret pocket and turned it on. Only one number saved-encrypted, scrambled, bouncing across at least six locations before it reached the target.
He hit call.
A few long, tense rings.
Then a voice answered.
"...Dick?"
It was Bruce. Tired. Gravel-worn.
Dick's breath caught in his chest-not at Bruce's voice... but at the relief behind it.
"Yeah. I'm in," Dick whispered. "They bought it. I passed their trial."
There was a pause.
"Where are you?"
"No idea," Dick said, moving to the far corner of the room and sitting on the cold floor. "They knocked me out before bringing me here. Underground. Old stonework. Feels like we're somewhere beneath Gotham proper, but deep. Secure."
Bruce grunted in acknowledgement. "And your status?"
"I'm not a Talon. Not yet. They've got me doing hits for now. Testing my loyalty. Watching everything. I've already found three bugs and two cameras."
"That's expected," Bruce said. "You're doing well."
Dick lowered his voice further. "How's Barbara?"
Another pause-this one longer.
"She's... worried. She hasn't slept much. Checks her phone constantly. Keeps rereading your note."
Dick's chest tightened. He closed his eyes.
"Tell her I'm okay," he said. "Don't tell her too much. Just enough."
"I already have."
Silence hung between them for a moment longer.
Then Bruce added, softer than before: "She misses you."
"...Yeah," Dick whispered. "I miss her too."
A faint sound echoed in the hall-distant footsteps.
Dick's eyes snapped to the door.
"Someone's coming. I'll call when I can."
He killed the line, crushed the SIM, and flushed it down the tiny wash basin's drain before sliding the phone back into his jacket secret pocket.
By the time the knock came-soft, deliberate-Dick was sitting calmly at the desk, flipping through one of the Court's ancient tomes like nothing had happened.
The game was still on.