Batman guided the batmobile onto the turntable platform. He killed the power, letting the sound fade into the familiar ambient noise of water dripping and bats rustling overhead.

  Oracle sat at her workstation, surrounded by screens showing various camera feeds and data streams. Her fingers moved across multiple keyboards while lines of code reflected in her glasses. She gave him a brief nod but kept working.

  "Master Bruce," Alfred appeared at his side as he climbed out of the car, carrying a silver tray with a steaming cup. "I took the liberty of preparing some Earl Grey. You've been out since dawn."

  "Not now, Alfred," Batman pulled back his cowl, revealing the exhaustion etched across his features.

  "Very well, sir," Alfred's disapproval was subtle but clear. "I'll leave it here should you change your mind."

  Dick stood near the main computer bank, arms crossed as he watched Bruce approach. "You look like crap."

  "What do you have?"

  "Good to see you too," Dick pushed off from the console. "Look, I know you're not big on small talk, but this isn't exactly a quick briefing kind of situation."

  "Then start talking," Bruce moved past him to check one of Oracle's screens.

  "Bruce," Dick grabbed his shoulder. "You need to sit down for this one."

  Bruce turned, really looking at Dick for the first time since arriving. The younger man's expression was grim—not his usual easy confidence.

  "What aren't you telling me?"

  "A lot," Dick ran a hand through his hair. "And none of it's good. But first, when's the last time you actually slept?"

  "Dick—"

  "I'm serious."

  Bruce thought about it—well, tried to. The truth was, he didn’t know the answer. When had he actually slept? It wasn’t just a bad streak; this was a full-on blackout in his memory. Days and nights had bled together in a mess of stakeouts, back-alley interrogations, and dead ends on whatever lead had set him off this time. Hell, he’d been so buried in it all he’d completely forgotten Clark’s birthday—Clark, the guy who reminded everyone else’s birthdays were coming up like some indestructible Hallmark calendar with a cape.

  Now that little slip-up was bouncing around in his head, too. Clark had probably made some self-deprecating comment about Bruce being too busy saving Gotham to care about cake and candles—or worse, he’d said nothing at all. Typical Kent: the only man alive who could guilt-trip you by just existing.

  Bruce dragged his thoughts back to the present. Sleep wasn’t a luxury; it hadn’t been for years. Sure, Alfred nagged him about it (and would probably have something cutting to say about it later tonight), but what did it matter? If skipping a few REM cycles meant keeping Gotham breathing, then he'd keep running on fumes until the tank finally blew.

  “I honesty don’t know,” he finally admitted, his voice low but steady. “But it doesn’t matter right now. Tell me what’s going on. What’s with the Blackgate Tower explosion?”

  Dick's expression hardened as he moved closer to the computer bank, pulling up files he'd brought with him. "I've been tracking something in Blüdhaven. Arms dealers, assassins - the usual crew, except they're moving serious hardware into Gotham. Not just guns and explosives - we're talking next-gen tech that shouldn't even exist yet."

  "Who's behind it?" Bruce asked, scanning the data scrolling across the screen.

  "That's where it gets interesting. Name came up during my investigation - Detective Marcus Vale, GCPD."

  Bruce's eyes narrowed. "Vale? Never heard of him."

  "Veteran cop, twenty years on the force. Clean record, solid conviction rate. He was working the same case from Gotham's end," Dick pulled up Vale's personnel file. "According to my sources, he was supposed to meet with Gordon yesterday - right before Blackgate went up in smoke. Whatever Vale uncovered, he never got the chance to share it."

  "He was in the tower when it happened?"

  Dick nodded. "Along with everyone else who didn't make it out. But here's the kicker—I intercepted a coded message that originated from inside Blackgate. Vale sent it minutes before the explosion."

  Bruce turned to face him. "What did it say?"

  "Three words: 'The Owls are watching.'" Dick let that sink in. "Vale knew something was coming. He tried to warn us, but..."

  "But someone made sure he couldn't," Bruce finished, his jaw tight. "The timing's too perfect. They knew he was meeting Gordon. They knew what he'd found."

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  "Bruce," Dick said quietly, "if Vale was right about the Owls... we're not just dealing with arms dealers anymore. This goes deeper."

  The cave fell silent except for the distant sound of water dripping. Bruce stared at Vale's photo on the screen - another good cop who'd died trying to expose the truth. Another body on Gotham's growing pile.

  The Owls. He’d buried them—or so he thought. Not just figuratively, either. He’d torn through their maze of secrets, smashed their operatives, brought the "immortal" Court crashing down into Gotham’s gutters. And yet here they were, watching again.

  It didn’t add up. He wasn’t na?ve enough to think something that old and that vicious could be wiped out cleanly—but he had been thorough, more than thorough. The kind of thorough that left no loose ends. The kind of thorough that sent a message: Stay buried or I’ll dismantle you all over again.

  But now? This felt different. The Court didn’t operate in ways you could track with street-level intel and intercepted messages. They didn’t tip their hand with cryptic warnings scrawled across crime scenes or whisper threats into the right ears to keep Batman chasing shadows. They stayed quiet, always in the background, pulling strings too high up for most people to even notice they were dangling.

  So why now? Why this? Blowing up Blackgate Tower wasn’t just loud—it was sloppy. Destructive for the sake of destruction wasn’t their style; that was more Joker’s territory or any number of Gotham’s other costumed lunatics looking to leave scars on the city for fun. The Court made surgical strikes: one person removed here, one policy shifted there, all without anyone realizing it until years later when they were already ten steps ahead.

  If this really was them—if some splinter group or sleeper cell of Talons had crawled out from whatever dark pit they called home—then something was off. Either they’d changed tactics… or someone wanted him to think the Owls were back in play. Neither option sat well.

  He started pulling up old files on the Batcomputer, cross-referencing every known associate still alive—or alive enough—to keep tabs on.

  A few names popped out like rusted nails he’d hoped were hammered flat for good: old financiers whose family fortunes built Arkham before it became a dumping ground for psychopaths; ex-council members who’d vanished after his first run-in with the Court; construction contractors paid through shell corporations to build hidden chambers under Gotham landmarks.

  “Bruce,” Dick said, “you’re thinking it’s them.”

  “I don’t think,” Bruce replied, not looking away from the screen as patterns began emerging in old bank statements and property records. “I know.”

  “And yet somehow you missed this.”

  Bruce didn’t flinch at that—not outwardly, anyway—but inside? It hit. He had missed something. Either he hadn’t gone deep enough the first time or someone had rebuilt faster and smarter than he could dismantle.

  “How?” Dick pressed, stepping closer but keeping his distance from Bruce’s zone. “How do people like that just start up again under your radar?”

  “Because I assumed fear worked,” Bruce’s voice had an edge like sandpaper scraped too hard against wood. “I assumed what I left behind in their ruins was enough to make them stay gone.”

  “And now?” Dick asked.

  “Now I know better,” he replied. “Oracle, send everything you have. Every scrap of intel, every lead Vale was following. If the Court of Owls is back in Gotham, we need to know what they're planning before more buildings start falling.”

  Barbara swiveled in her chair, fingers pausing over her keyboard. "I don't know, Bruce. The Owls always have a way of hiding their work."

  "Not this time," Bruce said, moving to stand behind her workstation. He tracked multiple screens, taking in the data streams and surveillance feeds. "They're making mistakes."

  "Or they want us to think they are," Barbara countered. She pulled up a new window, lines of code reflecting off her glasses. "Look at these patterns. The way they're moving money, the shell companies - it's too obvious. The Court I remember wouldn't leave breadcrumbs like this."

  "Unless they're desperate," Dick chimed in from his position near the main console. "Maybe whatever Vale found spooked them enough to rush things."

  Barbara shook her head. "The Court doesn't get spooked. They plan. They wait. Everything they do has layers of contingencies built in." She turned back to Bruce. "Remember what happened last time we thought we had them cornered?"

  "That was different," Bruce said.

  "Was it?" Barbara pulled up another screen showing thermal imaging of Blackgate Tower before the explosion. "Because right now, all I'm seeing are fragments that don't add up. The tech signatures don't match their usual MO. The timing's wrong. Even the explosion pattern looks engineered for maximum visibility."

  "So what are you saying?" Dick asked.

  "I'm saying maybe we're seeing what someone wants us to see," Barbara replied. "And rushing in based on a dead cop's cryptic message might be exactly what they're counting on."

  "You mean like a copycat?" Dick asked.

  "Yes."

  She was right - the Court had always been about subtlety and misdirection. This felt different. Wrong. But if not the Court, then who? And why make it look like their handiwork?

  He needed more time to think, to analyze. But time wasn't a luxury Gotham could afford right now. Not with buildings falling and bodies piling up.

  "Sir," Alfred's voice cut through the tension, "I hate to interrupt what I'm sure is a riveting discussion about Gotham's resident secret society, but you have the Wayne Foundation fundraiser in two hours."

  Bruce didn't turn around. "Cancel it."

  "I'm afraid that's not possible. The guest list includes three city council members and the police commissioner himself. Your absence would be... noted."

  "Alfred, I don't have time for champagne and small talk," Bruce said. "Not with this happening."

  "On the contrary, Master Bruce," Alfred stepped closer, his reflection visible in one of the dark monitors. "The fundraiser presents an opportunity to gather intelligence from Gotham's elite—the very circles where the Court once held considerable influence."

  Bruce stopped typing. "They'll be watching."

  "Precisely," Alfred said. "And what better way to maintain your carefully crafted persona than by attending a charity event while Gotham whispers about terrorist attacks?"

  "He's got a point," Dick added. "Plus, Gordon will be there. Might be worth hearing what he knows about Vale off the record."

  Bruce rubbed his temples. The thought of playing billionaire playboy while the Court—or whoever was imitating them—plotted their next move made his stomach turn. But Alfred was right. Bruce Wayne's public appearances mattered just as much as Batman's shadows.

  "Fine," he growled. "But I'm not staying long."

  "I took the liberty of laying out your Armani," Alfred said, the ghost of a smile crossing his face. "The charcoal one. Less conspicuous than the black."

  Bruce stood up from the console. "Oracle, keep digging. If anything changes—"

  "I'll let you know," she finished. "Try not to punch any socialites this time."

  "That was one time," Bruce muttered as he headed toward the elevator. "And he deserved it."