The Court's lair, usually cloaked in shadows and solemn silence, had transformed into something unrecognizable.
The grand chamber was lit with golden chandeliers, dozens of candelabras casting flickering light against the stone walls. Velvet banners of grey and gold draped from the rafters. Masked figures in ornate suits and elegant dresses mingled, murmuring to one another in hushed tones. Classical string music echoed from a small ensemble playing from a raised alcove.
This was no ordinary gathering.
This was a Court celebration—an event whispered of in old police files and Gotham's darkest corners. A formal party, held only once a year, to reward loyalty and reaffirm hierarchy.
Dick stood near the outer wall, wearing a black tailored suit, his porcelain owl mask polished to a flawless sheen. He kept his posture loose, his gaze sharp behind the mask, quietly observing the social web unfurling in front of him.
It was like watching a mafia gala with aristocratic flair. Every laugh was calculated. Every glance a test. Every toast laced with silent threats.
And then, she approached.
A woman in her mid-twenties, tall, poised, and dressed in a flowing silver gown that shimmered like moonlight. Her mask—crafted from brushed obsidian and accented with gold—only partially hid her face. Eyes like knives. Smile like silk.
"You must be Grayson."
Her voice was smooth, confident. She didn't ask—she knew.
Dick turned his head slightly. "And you are?"
"The Grandmaster's daughter," she said with quiet amusement, offering her hand. "You can call me Evelyn."
He took her hand gently, unsure whether to play it polite or cold. Her grip was delicate but assured.
"I've heard a lot about you," she added, stepping closer. "New blood. Useful. Efficient. Handsome."
Dick raised an eyebrow beneath his mask. "Is that your opinion, or your father's?"
"Both," she said simply. "Though I rarely care about my father's."
She gestured toward the dance floor, where masked couples began gliding to the rhythm of a slow waltz.
"Would you dance with me?" she asked.
There was a pause. Dick hesitated—every instinct told him to be cautious. But denying her might attract more suspicion than indulging her.
He nodded once. "Of course."
---
The Dance Floor
They moved together with eerie grace.
Dick hadn't waltzed formally in years—not since a gala with Alfred back when he was a teenager—but his muscle memory returned effortlessly. Evelyn's hands were light on his shoulders and waist, but her presence was commanding.
"I can tell you don't trust anyone here," she said softly.
He gave a noncommittal smile. "Seems smart not to."
"You're right," she said, amused. "But dangerous. The Court doesn't like isolation."
"And you?"
"I am the Court," she whispered, twirling with him across the polished stone. "But unlike them, I like puzzles. And you… you're a locked box in a room full of daggers."
Dick chuckled softly. "You always this poetic?"
"Only when I'm curious," she replied, her fingers lightly brushing his back as they turned.
The music swelled. They spun, eyes locked behind masks.
Dick could feel the stares of other members—silent judgments, quiet envy, maybe even a few quiet warnings.
Evelyn leaned in slightly.
"My father thinks you're a blunt instrument. But I think you're a man who hides his truths like knives in his boots."
Dick tilted his head. "That's a lot of thinking for a first dance."
Her smile widened. "Then maybe you should give me a second."
As the music slowed to its final notes, Evelyn released him gently.
"I'll be watching you, Grayson."
And then she vanished into the crowd, leaving him standing alone on the dance floor, the warmth of her touch fading into the chill of the chamber.
---
Back in his corner, Dick exhaled slowly.
The Grandmaster's daughter had taken a liking to him.
And while that might give him leverage…
…it might also become his most dangerous complication yet.
The laughter hit him the second he stepped into the lounge.
Sam and Pauline were kicked back on the old leather couches in front of the fireplace, half-drunk on vintage brandy from the Court's private collection, and fully entertained.
"So..." Sam grinned, tapping his glass with a smug smirk, "how was your little owl waltz, lover boy?"
Pauline let out a wheezing laugh. "Careful, Sammy. If Grayson plays his cards right, he might be our next Grandmaster-in-law."
Dick rolled his eyes. "You two done?"
"Not even close," Sam chuckled, raising his glass. "But hey, if seducing the boss's daughter keeps us off collection duty, I say dance away, Romeo."
Before Dick could fire back, a stern voice cut through the air like a blade.
"Grayson."
All three men turned.
The Grandmaster stood by the archway of the hall, hands behind his back. The room went quiet.
"My office. Now."
---
Grandmaster's Office – Moments Later
The room was dimly lit with warm gaslight, casting long shadows across the ancient bookshelves and Gothic architecture. Evelyn stood by the window, her mask resting on the desk beside her, sipping tea as though she had no part in the sudden tension filling the air.
The Grandmaster didn't sit. He looked to Dick and gestured toward Evelyn.
"My daughter has been… harassed as of late."
Dick's brow furrowed beneath his mask.
"Harassed how?"
"Three men. Loitering near her residence in Gotham's central ward," the Grandmaster said. "They've followed her more than once. And we suspect they are testing the Court's boundaries."
He turned fully to Dick, voice low but firm. "Escort her home. Make a statement. I trust you know how."
Evelyn smiled faintly. "Don't worry, Father. I feel very safe with Grayson."
---
Downtown Gotham – Near Midnight
They walked beneath flickering streetlights, the pulse of the city vibrating through sidewalks, neon, and distant sirens. Evelyn's heels clicked on the pavement as she walked with regal confidence through one of Gotham's darker districts.
Dick kept his gaze scanning.
He didn't have to wait long.
A group of three men emerged from the shadows near a closed liquor store. Cigarettes glowing. Jackets heavy. Movement too casual to be accidental.
"Well, look at this," the leader said, stepping forward. "Didn't think we'd see the Ice Queen twice in a week."
Evelyn's posture didn't change. "You have ten seconds to walk away."
The leader laughed. "That's cute. You gonna sic your boyfriend on us?"
Dick took a step forward, eyes locked on the leader.
"I said walk. Away."
One of the others muttered, "Who's this guy?"
"Doesn't matter," the leader sneered. "He bleeds like the rest."
The next few seconds moved like lightning.
One thug swung a crowbar.
Dick ducked, stepped in, and elbowed him in the throat. Another lunged from the side—Dick twisted, dropped him with a knee to the gut, and turned toward the third—
But not fast enough.
The leader slashed with a box cutter. A sharp pain ripped through Dick's left arm as the blade grazed his bicep.
He grunted, staggering back.
Adrenaline surged.
He snapped a kick into the leader's knee, grabbed his wrist, disarmed him, and shoved him face-first into a brick wall.
The other two were already groaning on the pavement.
Dick exhaled, shaking his head. "Amateurs."
---
Later – Evelyn's Apartment
The wound wasn't deep, but it stung.
Evelyn sat him at her kitchen table, gently dabbing antiseptic on the cut with a cloth. Her high heels were gone, and she had changed into a long silk robe. The air smelled faintly of lavender and old books.
"I didn't need help," she said calmly, "but you handled that well."
Dick watched her movements carefully. Precise. Methodical. Much like her father.
"They were sloppy," he said. "But if they were watching you, they weren't just bored thugs."
Evelyn paused for a moment before nodding. "You're right. My father won't say it, but some factions within the Court are fracturing. The Penguin's push, the missing money—there's fear in the cracks."
She finished wrapping the gauze and looked up at him, her face unreadable.
"You didn't have to get involved. That cut... it could've been worse."
He shrugged, flexing his arm. "I've had worse."
There was a moment of silence between them.
Evelyn stood up, walked to the small bar in the corner, and poured two glasses of brandy.
She handed one to Dick. "You can stay the night. Spare room's clean. The streets aren't safe right now."
Dick hesitated for just a beat—then nodded.
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me yet," she said quietly, sipping her drink. "You're walking a dangerous line, Grayson. One foot in our world… and one in another."
She turned away before he could answer.
And in that moment, Dick knew:
The Grandmaster's daughter was watching him more closely than anyone else.
And she wasn't sure yet if she wanted him as an ally...
…or something else entirely.
The spare room Evelyn had offered was surprisingly warm and minimalist—dark oak furniture, soft lighting, a fireplace that had long since gone unused. Dick sat on the edge of the guest bed, freshly patched up, shirt unbuttoned as he checked the bandage on his arm.
The cut would heal.
But what followed might leave a deeper scar.
Footsteps approached—soft and unhurried. The door creaked open.
Evelyn stood there.
Gone was the refined silver robe and the cool detachment she'd carried through most of the evening. In its place, she wore something far more revealing—a silk nightgown, dark as ink, cut low in the front and high along the sides, designed less for comfort and more for intent.
Her hair was down. Her mask was gone.
Her expression was unreadable.
Dick stood slowly. "Evelyn—"
"I was curious," she said, voice low and deliberate, "how the Grandmaster's new favorite would respond to an… invitation."
She stepped forward, closing the space between them. "You've impressed my father. You've survived the trials. You've earned your way into whispers." Her fingers touched the collar of his open shirt, just slightly. "And after tonight, you've earned my attention."
Dick gently took her hand and stepped back.
"Evelyn, no."
She raised an eyebrow. Not angry. Not surprised. Amused.
"No?" she echoed, tilting her head. "Now that's unexpected."
"I'm not available," Dick said firmly. "There's someone else."
For a moment, silence hung in the air like suspended breath. Then Evelyn laughed softly—genuinely. It was a slow, sharp sound, like a scalpel drawn across silk.
"You?" she smirked. "Taken?"
He nodded once. "Very."
"That's… rich." She crossed her arms, leaning against the dresser with a wry grin. "You do realize the media paints you as a womanizer, right? Gotham's golden boy with a different date every gala.
"Yeah, well," Dick said with a faint edge, "the media doesn't know me."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, still playful, but curious now. "Who is she?"
He hesitated.
A name lingered on the edge of his tongue.
Barbara.
Her red hair, her fire, her fierce brilliance and patience—her whispered I love you over the burner phone just nights ago. She was the reason he endured this mission. The tether in the dark.
But he said nothing.
Evelyn's smile twisted.
"You're not going to tell me," she said.
"No."
"Smart. Or stupid." She turned and walked toward the door. "Secrets are a currency here. Spend them wisely, Grayson. Because if I wanted to know—really wanted to know—I could find her."
Dick's fists clenched at his sides.
She stopped in the doorway and looked over her shoulder, the silk gown catching the warm light like shadow in motion.
"Don't worry," she added, her voice almost kind. "I won't. Not unless you give me a reason."
Then she disappeared into the hallway, the door closing behind her with a quiet click.
---
Alone again, Dick sat down, heart steady but mind racing.
The Court was testing him in more ways than one.
And now Evelyn—dangerous, intelligent, and likely just as manipulative as her father—was watching him with more than political interest.
He took a breath, reached into his pocket, and closed his fingers around a small, creased photo.
Barbara.
He would not slip.
Not now.
Not ever.