Huntress

You exit the alley, mind still a little frazzled from tonight's events, when another thug burst past you almost knocking you over. You immediately recognise him as Tommy "Twitchy" Malone, a low-level runner for Two-Face. His eyes were wide with panic, clutching a blood-stained duffel bag to his chest like it contained his own beating heart. "Jesus, Dom! Didn't see ya there!" he gasped, glancing frantically over his shoulder. "Shit, can't stay, just don't tell her where I went, okay?"

Before you could reply, Tommy took off before ducking into a nearby building. Your throat tightened—bloodstained duffels and panic in Gotham meant only trouble. The air smelled of wet asphalt and distant sirens, punctuated by the sharp slap of Tommy’s sneakers fading into darkness. You stared at the spot he’d vanished, knuckles whitening around Montoya’s card in your pocket.

Then 20 seconds later, Huntress stopped her bike in front of you—engine growling low and threatening as a cornered wolf—her crossbow already leveled at your chest. Her purple cape pooled over the asphalt like spilled ink. "Where'd Malone go?" she demanded, voice raspy from her vocal modulator. You kept your hands visible, palms slick with sweat against frayed denim. Huntress didn't bother with vigilante theatrics; she'd kneecap you for lying before you finished the sentence. You didn't know what to say, Tommy was a good friend of yours, he had saved your life from Two-Face on more than one occasion. But you worried that lying to Huntress might get you killed.