The rooftop smelled like soy sauce and fryer grease, not exactly the romantic kind of night air, but Artemis didn't complain as she snatched the paper bag out of Zane's hands like it was contraband.
"Finally," she said, plopping down on the ledge with her legs dangling over the street. "I was about to eat my own quiver."
"That'd be a choking hazard," Zane said, settling beside her with his soda.
"Better than starving." She tore open a Styrofoam box and frowned. "Where are the fries?"
Zane blinked. "Fries aren't Chinese food. You asked for Chinese food."
"Yeah but...you know I love fries Zane!" Artemis fished around, pulled out a dumpling, and bit into it grumpily. "Your supposed to know that by now!"
"Excuse me, I'm not Martian Manhunter. Don't know what your thinking, just ask for it next time."
Artemis gave him a flat look, chewing. "You're making excuses."
Zane popped his soda open with a hiss, huffing flamboyantly. "Women, I swear. All you have to do is tell us what you want instead of testing us. So many problems could be avoided."
"We wanna see if you guys even know us, and you failed." She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow, then dug out a can of soda for herself. "At least you didn't forget the sweet-and-sour chicken."
"That was for me, you said you wanted spicy chicken." Zane said with one eye brow twitching.
She froze with a piece halfway to her mouth. "Say that again."
"I'm serious. I even have the texts ro prove it!!." Zane exclaimed as he took out his phone.
Artemis narrowed her eyes, then ate the piece anyway. Slowly. Deliberately. Like she was declaring war.
Zane sighed, leaning back on one arm. " I knew you would do that, thats why I already gave that chicken some special attention....heh..heh...enjoy!"
"....!!!Zane!!! You bastard, what did you do!?" she as she stared at the half eaten chicken with a pale face.
"...hahahah....this counts as a indirect kiss or something right?!" Zane joked as Artemis started throwing him with pieces of paper that were lying around.
---
With the jokes over, Artemis and Zane ate in relative peace for a while, the sounds of the city carrying up to them—sirens, car horns, the low buzz of Star City's nightlife. Zane let his coat rest beside him, his mask tucked away. For a rare moment, he looked almost relaxed, chewing on a dumpling while Artemis rambled about her day.
"Math teacher's a sadist," she said. "Two whole pages of quadratic equations. I swear he's trying to break me."
Yes, while Artemis was a Vigilante, she was still going to school. Although she did miss many days recently. Now she had to catch up on her work.
"You survived gang fights and drug busts, but polynomials are where you draw the line?"
"Yes. Don't mock my pain." She stabbed at her noodles with chopsticks like they were the enemy.
Zane smirked, then zoned out for a moment. Artemis's voice faded into the background, and his thoughts wandered.
Sportsmaster's face flashed in his head. Blood. The crack of armor caving in. The limp body sliding down steel.
What would Artemis do if she found out?
Would she cry? Rage? Hate him? The thought twisted in his chest like a blade, sharper than any strike Sportsmaster had managed to land. Artemis finding out—her face cracking, eyes wide with grief—made something inside him pull tight.
But then, his mind flipped it like a coin.
Easy fix. Just rewind. Do it differently. It wasn't permanent unless he let it be. Maybe next time, he wouldn't drive the claws all the way in. Maybe he'd stop short, leave Sportsmaster alive. Crippled. Paralyzed. The man stuck in a wheelchair, scowling under hospital lights.
Zane almost snorted at the picture. Sportsmaster, veins bulging in his forehead, yelling, "You little brat!" while Artemis pushed him down a hallway with a juice box in the cup holder.
'Wait, isn't her mother also crippled? So both parents would be in wheelchairs? They'd be a match made in heaven!' He almost laughed out loud at the image.
And then the guilt hit.
'Jesus. That's…twisted. You're a little psycho, Zane.'
He pressed the soda can to his lips, taking a long sip, forcing the fizz to burn his throat. He stared out at the city, trying to shove the mental image into a dark corner.
The thought still tickled a part of him he didn't like admitting existed. Dark humor, sure—but the ease with which he imagined it made him uneasy. He wasn't a monster. Not yet. He hoped.
"Was I always like this?' Zane muttered to himself.
He let the soda bubble settle, pushed the image down, and returned his attention to Artemis, who was oblivious to the mental horror show he'd just run.
---
Far from rooftops and dumplings, a chamber of shadows stirred.
The Light convened. Screens flickered with silhouettes, voices crisp and cold.
"Our enforcer is gone," Vandal Savage said, voice deep as stone. "Sportsmaster's usefulness has ended prematurely."
"Sloppy," Queen Bee drawled. "And inconvenient. His loss unbalances several of my operations."
Lex Luthor's voice cut in, precise and smug. "The evidence at the scene suggests a metahuman—strength, speed, claws capable of shredding reinforced composites. Whoever it was, they struck with precision and left without trace."
"Not one of ours?" Ra's al Ghul's voice slid like a blade in water.
"No," Luthor said. "And not one of the League's. Their metas are accounted for."
"Then who?" Queen Bee questioned, her voice sharp with irritation. "You mean to tell me some random nobody killed him, embarrassing."
"It matters little," Savage rumbled. "The man was replaceable. We'll find another enforcer. Until then, certain operations will be…paused."
"That will not please our clients," Queen Bee said.
"Our clients please us, not the other way around," Savage replied.
Black Manta's voice joined, steady and low. "The culprit. If he can kill Sportsmaster, he can be used—or destroyed."
Luthor hummed thoughtfully. "Indeed. I propose we wait. Whoever this metahuman is, they will surface again. They always do."
Savage's silhouette leaned forward. "Then we prepare. Watch Star City. Tighten our net. The death of Sportsmaster is an inconvenience, not a disaster. Our war continues."
One by one, the screens winked out, until only darkness remained.
---
Elsewhere, in a training hall lit by dim lanterns, the hiss of blades cut through silence.
Cheshire's knives struck dummies with surgical fury, each impact punctuated by her controlled breathing. Straw and cloth spilled across the mat as she carved through target after target.
Her mask hid her face, but not the sharpness of her movements. Not grief. Not even anger. Something narrower. Sharper.
She paused, chest rising and falling, and whispered: "That was mine to do."
Her father's face flickered in her mind—mocking smiles, sharp words, lessons taught in violence. She had always promised herself she'd end him. That her hand would be the one to close that chapter.
Someone had stolen that from her.
She tilted her head, mask gleaming faintly in the lamplight. "Whoever killed him…" She gripped her knife tighter. "I'll kill them. No one takes my vengeance."
With a final strike, she split a dummy's head clean in two. The halves toppled, straw spilling out like blood on the floor.
The room fell silent again, except for the faint hum of steel in her hand.
Her vow lingered.
And somewhere, the city kept breathing—unaware that another storm had just chosen its prey.