Huntress

A heavy fog clung to the dimly lit alley, curling around Helena Bertinelli as she pressed herself against the shadowed brick wall. The quiet hum of Gotham’s midnight streets was punctuated by distant sirens, muted by the thick mist that blanketed the city. Her crossbow rested in her grip, finger poised, steady and sure. She was waiting—silent, predatory, watching.

This part of town was off-limits tonight for the city’s more respectable citizens. The backdoor deals, the shipments slipping quietly in from the docks, and the lowlife grunts circling like flies—it all pointed to one thing: Black Mask’s operation. She'd gotten a tip, and if there was one thing Helena hated more than criminals, it was those who worked in shadows to make the lives of innocents a living hell.

She spotted movement near a warehouse door, and her lips curled into a smirk beneath her mask. The goon thought he was safe, casually puffing on a cigarette and checking his phone. Helena slid silently from her hiding spot, boots moving with a practiced lightness as she closed the distance.

This was it: the thrill, the satisfaction. The Huntress was on the prowl.

The thug didn’t even notice her until it was too late—until the barrel of her crossbow pressed against the back of his neck.

“Drop the gun,” she whispered, her voice low and dangerous. “And let’s have a little chat, shall we?”