Batman, a master of psychology and micro-expression analysis, instantly knew she wasn't lying. For a brief moment, a sense of shared melancholy passed through him — he'd lost his parents, she had lost her father and brother. Their fates weren't so different after all.
Still, he couldn't help but press the issue.
"So many people died today. Don't you feel guilty?"
"They were bad people, weren't they? And it was the police who killed them. We live under the rule of law — when criminals resist arrest, death is the natural consequence."
Thea honestly couldn't comprehend the logic of these so-called heroes sometimes. But now wasn't the time to argue. She simply shifted the angle — throw the whole thing on the police.
It wasn't her order. It wasn't her hand. Her conscience? Spotless.
Batman stared at her, momentarily stunned.
Technically, she was right.
Flawlessly right.
Still, he tried again.
"Even if they were criminals, killing them outright… doesn't seem right, does it?"
Thea sighed internally. She could tell he wasn't going to let this go until she gave him an answer.
So she adopted the same calm, logical tone she'd once used debating with Malcolm Merlyn.
"When you capture a criminal and hand him to the police, that's law enforcement.
When they resist arrest and die in the process, that's still law enforcement.
There's no contradiction.
What we did today wasn't a simple police operation — it was a war.
A war between justice and evil.
And in war, there's only one victor.
This war isn't over yet. There are still thousands of people waiting to be saved."
Before he could respond, she continued smoothly:
"I do admire what you've done, truly.
But from what I've seen of Gotham lately, this city doesn't just lack a Batman… it also lacks a Bruce."
"What do you mean?" Batman frowned.
"Just what I said. You spend your nights as Batman and your days pretending to be a careless playboy. That's wasting the influence and reputation of Bruce Wayne.
Have you thought about what happens when Commissioner Gordon retires? Who's going to run Gotham during the day?"
"You're suggesting…" Bruce's mind was already piecing it together, but he wanted to hear her say it.
"That you should take over the position once Gordon steps down.
With your money, connections, and leadership, you could do better than him — maybe even make real change."
She didn't mean it seriously — she just wanted to redirect his attention toward politics and bureaucracy, so she could handle the Court of Owls without interference.
But Bruce Wayne, being Bruce Wayne, took her words seriously.
For the first time, he considered it.
He'd known Gordon since the man was a young officer. They'd worked together for decades. And Thea was right — the old man was getting tired.
He'd risked his life for years, been kidnapped more times than anyone could count. Maybe he deserved rest.
And as for Bruce? He wasn't afraid of being kidnapped.
He nodded slowly.
"I'll think about it."
Then, full of new thoughts, he turned and walked away.
When he was gone, Thea found a clean patch of grass and sat down.
"He's far enough. You can come out now, big sister."
A shadow shifted behind a tree — Talia al Ghul stepped out. No bow this time, just a blade hanging at her hip.
"You're not my sister."
"Obviously."
With her hood and glasses off, it was plain to anyone that they shared no bloodline.
Talia didn't attack. Instead, she sat across from Thea, about three meters away, studying her with sharp, assessing eyes.
"Where did you learn to fight like that?"
Thea just smiled faintly. Nice try.
Talia wasn't surprised by the silence.
She started reasoning it out herself.
"You weren't trained in Nanda Parbat — that's clear. You must be a descendant of one of Father's lieutenants."
Ra's al Ghul had lived for centuries. He'd had countless subordinates, most of whom had died in Nanda Parbat, but there were always exceptions.
It wasn't impossible that one of their bloodlines had reached Gotham.
"You don't want Father's attention drawn to Gotham either, do you?"
"Exactly."
Finally, something they could agree on.
"Then according to League protocol, I'll withdraw. I won't interfere here again."
Her tone softened slightly.
"Consider it a favor — a warning: the Court of Owls has discovered some kind of secret weapon. They've already begun activating it."
"A secret weapon?" Thea frowned. "What kind?"
"No idea." Talia smirked. "All I know is they've halted their enhanced-soldier experiments. A certain Dr. Hugo is leading the new project."
She tossed a small metal tag to Thea.
"You've earned a favor. If you ever need me, find me in Russia."
And with that, she turned and disappeared into the forest, her figure melting into the dark like a shadow fading with the wind.
Thea let out an exasperated sigh.
"Does anyone in this world ever finish a sentence?"
She rolled the tag between her fingers, brow furrowed.
A secret weapon? What could Gotham possibly still be hiding?
She looked to her right.
"You heard all that. Any idea what kind of weapon she meant?"
"I've got no clue," Catwoman answered, dropping down beside her and lying flat on the grass, a blade of dry stalk between her lips as she stared at the sunset.
Thea chuckled under her breath.
"So all three of you — Bruce, Talia, and now you — come to me for therapy, huh? Fine. Let's talk."
"She's gone, isn't she?" Catwoman muttered. "Good. You and Bruce can have your 'two-person world' again.
Next time you two go on one of your weird little 'dates,' don't pick Star City. Go to Metropolis instead."
"No way. I'm broke."
That bitter tone made Thea wince. Lady Shiva had really gone overboard — to ensure her daughter's "character growth," she'd practically starved her financially.
Before Thea could reply, Catwoman cut her off and rummaged through her bag.
"Here. Got this from Killer Moth. A painting. Take a look — maybe you'll buy it."
"A… painting?"
Thea blinked.
No one in her family — for eight generations — had ever shown a hint of artistic talent.
Why couldn't they just talk about weapons or gadgets instead?
And besides, she was broke too!
Still, rejecting it outright felt rude.
So she took it.
The scroll was small — less than a meter in either direction — clearly old, repaired in several spots.
Judging by the clean cut along one edge, Catwoman had "liberated" it with her usual enthusiasm; its market value had probably been cut in half.
The painting itself was simple — a dense forest with a winding stone path cutting through the trees.
No people, no animals.
Just a quiet landscape.
Peaceful, almost dull.