The envelope felt heavier than it should have—like it carried not just instructions but a choice he couldn't walk back from.
Dick sat alone in a safehouse above a boarded-up jazz club in Gotham's old quarter. No mask. No comms. Just dim lamplight and the wax-sealed envelope lying in front of him on a cracked kitchen table.
He broke the seal.
Inside: a single sheet of paper, handwritten in the same precise script as the note in the Maroni Building basement.
> "Operation: Hollow Nest"
A man named Conrad Duffy. Age 54. Arms trafficker. Known dealer to Falcone remnants and mercenary groups operating outside Blüdhaven.
He's been feeding intelligence to external threats—ones that endanger the Court's long-standing hold.
He operates under protection from corrupt GCPD officers and local politicians.
The Court demands silence. Not exposure. Removal.
Make it clean. Make it vanish.
If he disappears without a whisper, you'll be contacted again.
Dick stared at the name. Conrad Duffy.
He knew it.
Duffy had been on Interpol's radar for years but slippery enough to avoid real charges. He wasn't a good man—not even close. But this wasn't a mission of justice.
It was a test.
The Court didn't want blood for righteousness. They wanted blood for obedience.
Dick folded the paper and stood. He went to the hidden panel beneath the floorboards, where a spare suit—sleek, dark, unbranded—waited beside a suppressed sidearm and a burner phone.
He stared at the gun.
Bruce had warned him: You'll have to cross lines I won't let myself touch.
Dick pocketed the weapon but left the safety on. This wasn't a hit. This was a message to the Court.
I'm willing to get my hands dirty—but on my terms.
---
Midnight — Old Dockyards
The warehouse smelled of oil and rust. Duffy's guards patrolled the perimeter in predictable rhythms, careless after years of not being challenged.
Dick moved like a shadow, weaving through the dark. He disarmed the first two with silent takedowns and snapped a third's wrist before he could reach for his radio. When Duffy emerged from his office in a white suit, cigar still burning, Dick was already there.
He pressed the gun to the man's temple.
"You don't know me," he said coldly. "But you pissed off people who know everyone."
Duffy stammered, sweat already soaking his collar.
"What—what do you want? Money? Info? I can—"
Dick knocked him out with the butt of the gun.
---
By dawn, Duffy's office was torched, his records destroyed, and the man himself bound and blindfolded on a shipping container heading for an anonymous destination in Eastern Europe—courtesy of an old favor Dick had cashed in with Spyral.
He hadn't killed him.
But to the Court, Duffy had vanished.
Clean. Silent. Gone.
Just like they wanted.
---
Back at the safehouse, the burner phone lit up with a new message:
> "The Hollow Nest has been cleared. The Court sees promise in you. Await, your next invitation."
Dick closed his eyes and exhaled.
He was in.
Now came the harder part.
Fooling the people who fooled Gotham for generations.
*Sometime later*
It had been five days.
Five days since he delivered Conrad Duffy into a black hole. Since he'd cleaned the blood without spilling a drop. Since the Court whispered their approval through a burner phone and then disappeared.
Now Dick Grayson sat alone in the gloom of the safehouse, wrapped in stillness that pressed down harder than any of the Court's Talons.
No word. No message. No contact.
Just waiting.
It was part of the test—he knew that. The Court was watching. Gauging his patience. His obedience. His willingness to sit in the dark and wait for their hand to guide him.
But the silence wasn't what gnawed at him.
It was the distance.
No comms.
No Bat-family.
No, Barbara.
He hadn't turned on his real phone. He hadn't responded to her texts.
Not because he didn't want to.
But because if the Court caught even a flicker of their connection, she was dead.
Still, her voice haunted him. Her laugh. The soft way she had kissed his cheek that last night. The warmth of her in bed beside him.
The note he left her had been short. Not nearly enough. Nothing was enough.
---
To stay sharp, Dick moved. He trained in silence—push-ups, shadowboxing and acrobatics in the steel frame of the abandoned warehouse next door. He mapped the neighbourhood, memorized patrols, entrances, and escape routes. He read everything Bruce left him about historical owl sightings, the Court's architecture, the family names that disappeared in the 1800s, and reemerged with power out of nowhere.
He wasn't just playing a part.
He had to become it.
But at night, when he lay awake staring at the ceiling, doubts whispered to him like cold wind.
How deep could he go before he lost himself?
And if he did—who would be left to bring him back?
---
On the morning of the sixth day, the burner phone buzzed.
One message.
No sender. No subject.
Just a location:
> "Be at the abandoned opera house on Kane Street. Midnight."
Dick closed the phone slowly.
The game had resumed.
And this time, the curtain would rise.
*Later at the opera house*
The moon was high over Gotham as Dick arrived at the crumbling opera house on Kane Street. Its once-beautiful façade had collapsed in on itself, the rooftop long since surrendered to ivy and rot. The grand double doors creaked open with an eerie groan, revealing a wide lobby cloaked in shadow.
He moved silently, following the faint flicker of gaslight deeper into the building—until he reached the grand auditorium.
It was still. And packed.
At least twenty others stood in the ruined theatre—men and women from all walks of life. Mercenaries. Ex-soldiers. Killers with dead eyes. All of them had received the same message.
All of them believed they were chosen.
None of them knew the Court's game better than Dick Grayson.
The stage was lit only by flickering chandeliers above. Dust shimmered in the golden glow. Then—
CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.
A cane struck the marble floor as a figure in a dark grey cloak, and a long owl mask appeared on the central balcony. He raised his arms, the room going deathly silent.
The Grandmaster of the Court.
"Welcome," the voice echoed, rich and commanding, "to the Hall of Whispers. You stand among the finest the world's shadows have to offer."
No one moved.
"You were observed. Tested. Pushed. And now… you have passed."
There was a brief murmur of relief in the crowd—until the Grandmaster raised a gloved hand.
"But," he continued coldly, "we do not seek many. We seek one."
From the wings, masked servants emerged, carrying large velvet sacks.
They dumped the contents on the floor of the stage.
Weapons.
Blades. Chains. Clubs. Improvised knives. No guns. No mercy.
"The Court offers you a final trial," the Grandmaster said. "A rite older than Gotham's stones. The Last Feather."
He leaned forward over the balcony rail.
"Only the strongest shall wear the mask. Only the last one standing shall join our ranks. Kill. Or be forgotten."
Silence.
Then—
A bell rang.
And the slaughter began.
---
Dick didn't move at first. He stood just inside the wings of the stage, watching as chaos erupted.
Blood sprayed.
Bones cracked.
One contestant screamed as a chain wrapped around his throat and dragged him to the floor.
Dick's mind raced.
This wasn't in the plan.
He could fake a death. He could try to escape. But if he failed here—if he backed out now—it was over. All of it. Months of research, wasted. The mission. Bruce's trust. Barbara's safety.
And if he actually kills…?
No.
There was another way.
Dick darted toward the pile, snagging a baton and flipping it into his hand. He parried a machete swipe from a tattooed brawler, then drove the butt of the baton into the man's throat—just enough to knock him out.
Another rushed him—he side-stepped, used the attacker's momentum to slam them into a support column.
One by one, Dick began disabling the others—lethal-looking moves executed with just enough control to leave them alive.
It wasn't perfect.
It was risky.
But it was Nightwing's way.
---
As the carnage thinned, four remained.
Then three.
Then just two.
Dick—and a massive ex-Marine wielding twin hatchets, blood already soaking his shirt.
They circled each other on the broken stage.
Above them, the Grandmaster watched in silence.
The Marine lunged—Dick ducked, rolled, struck the man's knees. A roar of pain. A glancing blow to Dick's shoulder. He hissed but held his ground.
Finally, Dick feinted left, then struck a nerve cluster behind the Marine's neck.
The man crumpled.
Alive.
Unmoving.
The room fell silent again.
From the balcony, slow, deliberate clapping echoed across the bloodstained stage.
"Well done," the Grandmaster purred.
Dick stood still, breathing hard, staring up through the haze.
"You understand strength," the Grandmaster said. "But more than that… you understand control."
The masked servants returned.
This time, they brought a robe.
And a mask.
White porcelain.
Shaped like an owl.
Dick grabs the mask and sees his reflection in the mask before turning the mask around. Some gas shots into his faces as he drops the mask and falls unconscious.
" Take Grayson to the car. I would like to speak to him in private, " the Grandmaster said from the top of the balcony before disappearing into the building.