Location: Dick's Room – Court lair
The room was dim, lit only by the low hum of a desk lamp. Dust hovered lazily in the stale air. The owl mask sat on the table beside a disassembled pistol, a quiet reminder of the life Dick Grayson had been forced to wear.
His fingers hovered over the burner phone, pulse quickening. He knew the risk.
But he needed this.
He needed her.
He unlocked the phone and hit the number burned into his memory.
It rang.
Once.
Twice.
Then—
"Hello?!" Barbara's voice rang through, bright and full of warmth.
Dick smiled despite himself, exhaling the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Just hearing her voice was like being pulled back into the sun.
"Hey…" he said softly.
"Dick!" she practically beamed. "Oh my God, it's so good to hear from you! Are you okay? Is everything alright? How's Eastern Europe?"
He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a second. The lie came easier than he wanted it to.
"It's going great," he said. "A lot of meetings. Lot of travel. Bureaucracy is exhausting."
"You sound tired."
"Yeah," he chuckled weakly, "you could say that."
There was a pause. A gentle silence. The kind only people who truly loved each other knew how to share.
"How are you?" he asked.
Barbara didn't hesitate.
"I'm fine. The Belfry's busy—keeping tabs on the city, helping the team out where I can. Jason's still loud. Tim's still brilliant. And… I miss you."
Dick swallowed hard.
"I miss you too, Babs."
The silence stretched again, warm and aching.
Then—a knock at the door. Sharp. Twice.
Dick's face hardened instantly.
"Grayson," a voice barked through the wood. "The Grandmaster wants you. Now."
Dick covered the receiver with his hand, cursing under his breath. He brought the phone back to his ear.
"I have to go," he said quickly.
"Already?" Barbara's voice dropped in disappointment. "Just one more minute—"
"I wish I could. But I can't risk—" He stopped himself. "I'll call again when I can. I promise."
A beat of silence.
"I love you," she whispered.
Dick pressed the phone tighter to his ear, eyes squeezed shut.
"I love you too."
Click.
The line went dead.
Dick slipped the phone back into its hidden panel behind the loose floorboard and masked his expression in the mirror.
Whatever he felt—he had to bury it now.
Grayson had a role to play.
And the Court never tolerated delays.
Location: The Grandmaster's Office — Court of Owls Lair
Dick entered the Grandmaster's office and immediately felt the tension crackling in the air. The chamber was cloaked in heavy candlelight and silence, save for the rhythmic ticking of the ancient grandfather clock in the corner. Frank stood by the wall, arms folded and jaw clenched. Sam leaned against the far table, head slightly bowed, and Pauline stood with his usual smug irritation—but even that was dulled.
The Grandmaster sat at the head of the long table, his gloved fingers steepled under his chin. His owl mask cast eerie shadows across the carved wood.
"We have a problem," Frank said without greeting. "James—one of the boys from the car—the one in the passenger seat… survived."
Dick's jaw tightened just enough to betray unease. "How badly?"
"Alive enough to talk," Frank answered. "He's in the hospital under guard, but word is, he's scheduled for release in a few days. A little reconstructive work and he'll be talking freely."
"Is there any chance he can ID either of you?" Frank asked, voice sharp.
Dick paused. "I don't know… maybe. I had my mask, but—"
"The dead one," Frank continued, "was the Mayor's son."
That sucked the air from the room.
Even Sam's hand twitched slightly.
The Grandmaster slammed a fist against the table, making a nearby candle jump.
"Pauline," he hissed, "if you're going to do a hit, do it right. Two bullets in the skull! Not in the gut, not in the shoulder! We clean. We erase. We do not leave scraps that can talk back."
Pauline scowled, but said nothing, jaw tightening with the sting of a rare dressing-down.
"Because of this… the Mayor has cut all ties with the Court," Frank added.
There was a heavy pause. One more broken alliance. One more crack in the old empire.
Then Frank added, voice turning cold, "We have another issue. There's a girl at the casino. Name's Bell. Works the bar. Pretty little thing."
"She's been talking," Frank said. "Court names. Movements. Patterns. Word is, she's trading secrets for cash."
Sam looked up sharply.
"She's just a girl."
Frank didn't blink. "She's a liability."
The Grandmaster nodded solemnly. "I'm sorry, Sam. But it must be done."
For a fraction of a second, Dick saw it—something flicker in Sam's eyes. Not grief. But guilt. Connection.
He knew this girl.
Dick filed that away.
"So here's the plan," the Grandmaster said. "Sam, you'll go to the memorial mass at St. Jude's. The mayor's hosting it for his son. James will be there, tucked in a pew or a wheelchair, surrounded by sympathy. The second you get a clear shot—you end him."
Sam nodded, though reluctantly.
"Grayson," the Grandmaster said, turning to Dick. "You'll handle the Bell situation. Go to the casino. Get in quiet. Get out cleaner."
"Why me?" Dick asked, keeping his tone flat.
"Because all the girls at the casino know Sam and Pauline," the Grandmaster replied. "They wouldn't make it through the door. But you? You're new. You're charming. You can get close."
Pauline scoffed but didn't argue.
"When you're finished, meet Sam at the church. You'll cover his exit in case things go loud. Understood?"
Dick gave a nod, hiding the storm building behind his mask.
"Pauline," the Grandmaster added coldly, "you stay here. You've done enough for now."
Pauline's lips curled, insulted but silent.
The Grandmaster stood, looming in the golden candlelight.
"You've all made mistakes. But we do not leave loose ends. This city needs fear again. And fear must be rebuilt… with fire and blood."
---
As they walked out
Dick lingered a second behind Sam. When the hallway cleared, he stepped in beside him.
"Who is she?"
Sam didn't look at him.
"No one."
"You hesitated. You never hesitate."
Sam's jaw tightened.
"Just handle your job, Grayson," he said quietly, and walked off into the tunnel.
Dick stood alone in the flickering shadows.
Two missions.
One bullet for a scared girl.
One for a broken boy in a church pew.
And if either of them made it out alive…
He'd have to break the rules of the Court to make it happen.
Location: Gotham Streets — En Route to St. Jude's & Crescent Casino
Rain dotted the windshield as the car moved steadily through Gotham's older industrial sector. Dick sat behind the wheel, hands steady but mind turning like stormwater in a gutter. The silence between him and Sam was thick—until Sam broke it with a voice low and deliberate.
"You don't have to kill her."
Dick glanced over. Sam wasn't looking at him—just staring out the side window, his face lit only by passing street lamps.
"You serious?" Dick asked.
"Dead serious," Sam muttered. "She talked to me. Mentioned the Court. I gave her ten grand and told her to forget she ever knew the name. She didn't take it, but… she's not the enemy."
Sam finally turned, meeting Dick's eyes. There was no weakness in his voice—but there was urgency. A rare crack in the armor.
"I'm asking you," he said. "As a friend. Scare her. Pay her. Whatever it takes. Just… don't kill her."
Dick didn't answer right away. He kept his eyes on the road, tires slicing through puddles.
"Can I ask who she is to you?"
Sam's jaw clenched. A beat of hesitation. Then "Dick… this is the only time and the last time we talk about this. Let's leave it at that."
Dick nodded once. "Okay."
That was enough. For now.
---
Minutes Later — Outside St. Jude's Cathedral
The towering spire of St. Jude's cut into the Gotham skyline like a blade. Spotlights lit the church façade, and the murmuring of mourners drifted from the courtyard.
Dick pulled up near the side entrance.
Sam reached for the door but paused, glancing back.
"Be careful at the casino. They're jumpy. Bell's not the only one watching the door."
Dick gave a small nod. "I'll handle it."
Sam stepped out, coat collar pulled high as he melted into the shadows of the chapel, just another silhouette in the night.
Dick watched him disappear into the crowd.
Then he turned the wheel.
---
Next Stop: Crescent Casino — East End
Neon lights blinked against the rain-slick streets as Dick parked across from the Crescent Casino, its gold sign buzzing faintly over a black-glass entrance framed by crimson curtains. The bouncers were big, bored, and half-alert—typical casino muscle.
Dick pulled out the envelope from his jacket pocket.
$10,000 in fresh bills.
He exhaled slowly.
Sam gave her a chance.
Now it was Dick's turn to make sure she took it.
He stepped out into the rain, pulling his coat tight.
Tonight, he wasn't an owl.
He wasn't Nightwing.
He was just a shadow with a warning.
And he hoped to hell it would be enough.
Location: East End, Gotham – Crescent Casino
Dick slipped through the main entrance of the Crescent Casino like a ghost — long black coat concealing the tailored suit beneath, his owl mask tucked away inside. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, perfume, and the unmistakable sound of greed: poker chips clacking, slot machines chiming, low murmurs of high-stakes whispers.
He didn't make eye contact with anyone. He didn't need to.
All that mattered was speed.
The only people who knew where he was supposed to be — were wearing bat insignias.
And if anyone snapped a photo of him in this place, the dominoes would fall fast.
Dick made his way to the bar, keeping his posture relaxed but calculated. He flagged down the bartender, a man with a handlebar mustache and a thousand-yard stare.
"I'm looking for someone," Dick said casually. "Name's Bell."
The bartender didn't blink.
"She's upstairs," he said, wiping down a glass. "Private lounge. You got an appointment?"
Dick slid a crisp hundred across the counter.
"Now I do."
The bartender took it without a word and gestured to the velvet-roped stairwell in the back. A single security guard stood watch, but with a nod from the bartender, the man stepped aside.
---
Upper Floors – Private Lounge
The lighting upstairs was softer, more intimate — dim chandeliers, velvet drapes, and booths built for secrecy. High rollers. Quiet deals. Ghosts of Gotham's underworld clinking glasses over silent betrayals.
Dick scanned the room, zeroing in on her.
Bell.
Early twenties, sharp eyes, dyed silver-blonde hair cut short on one side. She was seated in a corner booth alone, legs crossed, idly stirring a cocktail she hadn't touched. She looked bored — or maybe waiting for something.
Dick approached quietly and slid into the booth across from her.
"You're Bell," he said flatly.
She didn't flinch.
"Depends who's asking."
Dick leaned in, dropping the envelope on the table.
"Ten grand. Take it and disappear."
Bell stared at the envelope, then at him. She didn't reach for it.
"Let me guess," she said. "You're one of them. Masked freaks with too much power and zero accountability."
"I'm someone giving you a second chance," Dick replied, voice low and serious. "This isn't a threat. It's mercy."
Bell scoffed.
"Sam send you?"
Dick didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Her expression faltered—just for a second.
"He said they'd never follow through. That it was just noise."
"Well," Dick said, sliding the envelope closer, "he was wrong. But you don't have to end up in the river. Leave Gotham. Start fresh. Tonight."
Bell hesitated… then slowly took the envelope, her fingers shaking just slightly.
"You're not going to kill me?"
Dick stood.
"Don't make me regret that."
He turned and walked toward the stairs, ignoring the pit in his gut, the voice in his head whispering that mercy wasn't how the Court operated.
He wasn't doing this their way.
He was doing it his.
And he only hoped it wouldn't come back to burn them both.
The heavy stone pillars of St. Jude's cast long shadows in the dying afternoon light. The cathedral's ancient bones echoed with the sound of a young man's voice — James — trembling with fury as he addressed the mourners gathered beneath the stained-glass saints.
Dick Grayson moved like smoke through the back halls, ducking beneath candlelit arches and moving behind crimson drapes that led to the altar's side passage. He didn't need to be told who was speaking — he recognized the fire in James' voice immediately.
"They thought they could kill me," James said, voice cracking through a microphone. "They thought they could silence me, like they silenced my friend. But I lived. And I remember their faces."
Dick reached the edge of the velvet curtain behind the altar — ready to step in, to cover Sam, to pull the plug if it went south.
He hadn't expected the priest.
A voice whispered behind him — trembling, suspicious.
"Who are you?"
Dick turned to see an elderly priest with cloudy eyes and a cross in one hand. No time to bluff. No time to vanish.
Before Dick could respond—
"That's him!" James shouted from the pulpit, pointing toward the back of the cathedral.
Dozens of mourners turned.
"That's one of the men who killed my friend!" James roared. "HE'S COURT! HE'S COURT!"
Gasps filled the cathedral. Then—
BANG.
The first gunshot rang out. Screaming erupted. A woman dove behind a pew. Another shot shattered a stained-glass window in a spray of color and dust.
Dick rolled for cover behind a support column as armed men — not churchgoers — rushed in from both sides. James wasn't alone. Penguin's men? Hired guns? It didn't matter.
The church became a war zone.
Wood splinters and echoing gunfire filled the sacred space as Dick pulled his pistol, firing two shots — one into a chandelier rope, sending it crashing between him and the gunmen, buying a few precious seconds.
"Sam, where the hell are you?" Dick muttered into his comm — but there was no reply. Static.
He ducked low and scanned the pulpit. James had vanished.
But the trap had already been sprung.
And Dick was in the center of it.
INT. ST. JUDE'S CATHEDRAL – AFTERMATH
Gunfire had silenced the church.
Dust floated through the fractured light bleeding in from broken stained glass. The scent of gunpowder, incense, and scorched pews hung thick in the air.
Dick stood over the bodies of the gunmen he'd taken down — clean, efficient, non-lethal where he could, but some hadn't given him a choice. Blood stained the marble floor.
Across from him, the priest knelt beside a fallen man, hands trembling as he whispered a prayer. Then he stood slowly, his old eyes brimming with something between grief and fury.
"You killed in a house of God," the priest said.
Dick, still catching his breath, holstered his pistol. "These men were killers."
"And still they could've found redemption. They could've turned to service, helped the poor. You robbed them of that."
Before Dick could respond, a cold voice cut through the silence.
"None of us, Father," James said, stepping out from behind a pillar — pistol raised, aimed straight at Dick. His face was flushed with hatred, his hand steady.
"None of us are getting redemption. Not in Gotham."
The priest held up a trembling hand. "Please… no more violence. Please, my son…"
James' voice didn't waver.
"I'm sorry, Father. Consider this an act of holy righteousness."
BANG.
A single bullet exploded through James' temple before he could pull the trigger. Blood sprayed against the stone wall like a macabre baptism.
Dick spun toward the source just in time to see Sam, lowering his smoking gun.
Without a word, Sam stepped forward and fired again into James' lifeless skull.
"We square?" he asked, flat and emotionless.
Dick nodded, jaw clenched.
"Yeah. We're squared."
They shared a glance. Not of celebration. Not even victory.
Just understanding.
This was what the Court required.
Dick turned to the stunned priest. Without ceremony, he pulled a roll of hundreds from his coat and tossed it onto the altar rail.
"Keep your mouth shut."
The priest didn't look at the cash — only at the bodies.
"I will not take your blood money."
Dick stared at him, something hollow in his eyes.
"You took theirs."
He nodded toward the dead men on the floor.
"Not a whole lot of difference from where I'm standing."
The priest didn't answer. He just sank to his knees and resumed praying, lips moving silently, as the two men in owl masks faded back into the shadows of the cathedral.
---
EXT. BACK ALLEY – ST. JUDE'S – NIGHT
Rain had started to fall again.
Dick and Sam stepped into the alley, vanishing behind the heavy church doors, blood still wet on their boots.
Another job done.
Another piece of his soul gone.
And somewhere in the city, Barbara waited for a phone call from Eastern Europe… never knowing the hell her love was wading through just to protect her.