Yes

"I saw him duck into that building across the street," you blurted, pointing with a trembling hand toward the crumbling tenement where Tommy had vanished. You hoped he'd found a fire escape or a basement hidey-hole—anything to evade Huntress's wrath. "I only saw him enter, I don't know exactly where in the building he went." The truth felt heavy and cold in your mouth. Tommy had saved your life twice—once when Two-Face flipped his coin for your execution, once when a rival gang cornered you in a pawn shop. You owed him. But Huntress's gloved finger curled tighter around the crossbow trigger, her gaze sharp as shattered glass through her lenses.

She then got off her bike and mar hed towards the door you had pointed to, her combat boots echoing off the wet pavement. You watch her pause before entering the building, her crossbow sweeping left and right. The door closed behind her as she entered, leaving you in the eerie silence of the alleyway. You heard a muffled scream and crashing sounds before she dragged Tommy out by his collar, his face bloodied and bruised.

He collapsed onto the sidewalk, coughing up blood as Huntress towered over him. She kicked the duffel bag open, revealing stacks of cash and glittering diamonds. "You're coming with me to the station and you are gonna tell me who you stole this from," Huntress growled, pressing her boot between Tommy's shoulder blades. His eyes met yours—pleading, betrayed—as she hauled him toward her bike. The diamonds spilled onto the asphalt like frozen tears.

She **** him onto the bike’s rear seat, zip-tying his wrists to the chassis with brutal efficiency, ignoring his whimpers. Huntress swung her leg over the saddle, revving the engine into a predatory snarl that echoed off fire escapes. Then she paused—her helmeted head swiveling back toward me—crossbow still dangling loosely from her right hand. “You,” she rasped, modulator crackling like dry bones. “Stay put. We’re not done.” The command hung in the air like a noose as she peeled away, Tommy’s terrified face vanishing into the night, his blood smearing the asphalt where he’d fallen.

You decide there's no way you're staying there like a sitting duck. Huntress's "we're not done" sounded less like an invitation and more like a promise of interrogation—vigilante-style, meaning no lawyers and probably broken fingers. You ran back to your apartment building, taking alleys so narrow your shoulders scraped brick. Inside, you bolted the door and leaned against it, listening for the growl of her bike. Silence. For now.