“Oracle,” Barbara Gordon, former Batgirl.

When she received Jason’s anonymous call, Vivi was still trapped in the labyrinth, only sending periodic check-ins to confirm her safety. Barbara raised an eyebrow—normal people didn’t report incidents directly to Oracle.

This mysterious caller was practically shouting, “Hey, I know who you vigilantes are, and I even got your contact. Nightwatch is in trouble, so go help her.” If Barbara hadn’t been able to guess the caller’s identity, she might have taken it as a kidnapping threat or a provocation.

The caller? The man who had dismantled the Maroni gang, decapitated a dozen drug lords, and dumped the survivors at the District Police Station—Red Hood.

“Fascinating. He consolidated the drug trade, absorbed other small gangs, and with Black Mask, Penguin, and Two-Face out of the picture, he had the chance to dominate Gotham. But he gave it up.” Barbara typed on her keyboard, pulling up Red Hood’s file. Of course, they had investigated him before. “His counter-surveillance is good, and Vivi’s attitude toward him is… peculiar. Is he someone we can work with?”

Unlikely. Red Hood’s methods were too violent. Information from Barbara’s informants painted him as brutal and unrelenting with criminals, seemingly unable to suppress his destructive tendencies and emotional outbursts.

Trying to view things from Vivi’s perspective, Barbara couldn’t help but smirk. “…Another case of using people?”

---

Meanwhile, Vivi had just broken through the labyrinth wall. Bathed in harsh light, she stepped into the final sealed room.

Inside were four rows of blood-red coffins, about forty in total. Each coffin bore a child’s photo, though some were open and empty.

The Talon Vivi had been dragging suddenly struggled free. She watched him with curiosity as he walked to one of the coffins, disarmed himself, and climbed inside.

Frowning, Vivi approached. Towering over him, she observed the Talon lying there. His body, muscular and scarred, bore the marks of both injury and rigorous training—a formidable, undead assassin. Yet now, curled in the coffin, he trembled, clutching his arms to his chest.

“Afraid?” Vivi rested her chin on her hand and crouched beside him. “How does it feel?”

The man’s blue eyes reflected her face, but his expression contorted in pain. “The light—”

He raised his scarred hands, trying to shield himself like a vampire recoiling under the sun.

Vivi dragged him out of the coffin. Then, before his stunned gaze, she placed her own corpse inside it.

The Talon remained motionless.

Next, Vivi took out a set of nails and sealed the coffin shut. Unless someone had a system-issued hammer, there was no way to break it open.

The Talon, still bound by the psychological effects of her “bear-ear headband” trick, appeared mentally shattered. He had yet to abandon the Court’s mission but was clearly overwhelmed, his mind “shattered by terror” and “plagued by lifelong fear.” Vivi decided not to erase his memory—for now. She wanted to see how he would behave under the lingering influence of her tools.

Just as she finished dealing with the body, she glanced up and saw the Talon lying in another coffin, this time with the lid firmly closed.

“…?”

Vivi dusted off her hands and began opening the other coffins. Inside each one lay a Talon in stasis. The coffins’ bases emitted a steady cold, keeping the assassins in a dormant state. Wasting no time, Vivi pulled them all out, determined to “poach” them from the Court.

“I wonder what you all saw…” she muttered. “Nothing scary, I’d imagine.”

The incomprehensible whispers? Vivi had heard them, too—they sounded like someone mumbling in their sleep. The “unseeable shadow”? She’d stared directly at it. In the darkness, her own shadow writhed, but she felt only mild disappointment. She liked horror games, but this single-player “game” was clearly sticking to its usual aesthetic.

Vivi tied all the Talons together and tossed them into the pool beneath the fallen Owl statue. With clinical efficiency, she yanked the blue-eyed Talon out of his coffin, covered his head with a piece of clothing, and dragged him along.

She didn’t trust the game’s random teleport mechanics—ending up in the Batcave would be a real riot. Better to leave the labyrinth herself before the countdown expired.

The South Hinckley recruitment fair hosted by the Court of Owls was a resounding success!

About an hour later, Vivi emerged from an underground river into Gotham Harbor and found her way to Mr. Freeze’s safehouse—one he had given her before his imprisonment. All the systems were still functional.

During this time, the Owls had retreated to their “nests.” Vivi could see on her map that all the [Madness Infected] had returned home. Remarkably, none of them had even caused a car accident along the way.

They were as quiet as babies… much like the Talon she had brought with her.

“Calmer in the dark, fearful in the light, conscious but fragmented in thought, unable to articulate or communicate clearly. Not quite insane enough for Arkham, but definitely not all there.”

The fear had reshaped him. Were the Owls experiencing the same thing?

For instance, Mr. Douglas.

A long-time resident of Gotham Harbor, his family had served the Court for generations. Known as a “bright” child, Douglas had a meticulous mind, active imagination, and a passion for art. Gotham’s rich maritime resources and status as an artistic hub had nurtured him.

Douglas loved painting, renowned for his vivid, violent colors and daring, chaotic style. But as he aged, he stopped picking up the brush. Not due to any physical limitations, but because inspiration had abandoned him. As a member of the Court of Owls, he never had to worry about his livelihood; his wealth, stained with the blood of the innocent, came without consequence. After all, those who died stood in the Court’s way—what else could they expect?

The Court of Owls was an international organization, thriving on mutual assistance and control.

Douglas sat motionless on his sofa, then stood abruptly. The world spun around him, and as he walked, strange melodies and surreal images flickered intermittently in his ears and eyes. Yet Douglas felt wonderful.

The melody, he realized, was the sound of his blood coursing through his veins. He felt stronger than ever, his senses heightened, his being “filled” with something indescribable.

When he opened the door, the maid stopped her conversation abruptly, staring at him in terror. Douglas ignored her, striding into his art studio.

He had to paint while the inspiration burned brightly.

At the door, the two cleaning maids heard a loud bang as Douglas slammed the ornate door shut—a shocking move for someone who usually flew into a rage over the slightest noise.

The younger maid whispered, “Do you think Mr. Douglas has… dementia?”

Douglas thought he looked powerful and composed. But in reality, the man who had stepped through the door looked pale and terrified. His pupils were dilated, and his trembling was visible to the naked eye. He glanced at the maids with horror, as if they were monsters, before stumbling into his studio and slamming the door behind him with a loud crash.

Inside, there was silence.

The maids exchanged nervous glances, unsure whether to follow. Douglas’s temper had worsened with age, and interrupting his painting might cost them their jobs. But strange, sharp noises soon emanated from the studio—snapping and scraping sounds that drove the maids to rush inside.

They found Douglas sprawled on the floor, staring at his “painting” and muttering sounds of “joy.”

One maid screamed in terror.

Douglas believed he was painting a masterpiece, a stunningly macabre work. In truth, he had slashed his arm open with a knife, using his spurting blood to create abstract patterns on the canvas.

One maid scrambled to stop the bleeding, while the butler, arriving hurriedly, called the private doctor.

The Douglas household was in chaos for the rest of the day.

---

Meanwhile, Vivi had loaded the Talons into a small truck borrowed from Mr. Freeze. It was only then that she remembered what she’d forgotten.

“Red Hood?”

Jason answered the unfamiliar number on his phone. A familiar voice came through, briskly giving him an address. “You’re nearby, right? Meet me here.”

Click. The call ended.

Jason: “…”

Red Hood roared down the streets on his motorcycle, arriving at the address in under five minutes. Vivi, lounging in the truck’s passenger seat, whistled when she saw him. She patted the driver’s seat. “You can park the bike in the back and take the wheel.”

Jason leapt off the bike and, without a word, slammed his fist into the backrest of Vivi’s seat. Behind him, his motorcycle, propelled by momentum, smashed into the warehouse door with a resounding crash.

Vivi winced. “That’s Mr. Freeze’s warehouse. If you’re going to pay for the damages, I suggest transferring the funds directly to Nora’s account.”

“Oracle contacted me,” Jason growled. “That’s normal. I left her clues, so of course, she reached out to tell me everything was fine.”

“No deaths, no severe injuries—it was all part of your plan. Your infiltration plan…”

“Everyone knew—”

Everyone involved had known the plan. Once Vivi had resolved the issue, she had immediately informed them—except Jason. Had he not contacted Oracle, he wouldn’t have even known it was a plan.

Everyone knew. Everyone except him.

And because he hadn’t known, his genuine reactions—his panic, his pursuit of the assassins—had perfectly completed the charade, convincing the Owls of his sincerity. In his ignorance, Jason had outperformed everyone, flawlessly diverting attention from the true scheme.

But dammit, everyone had known. Everyone but him—the clueless, ridiculous fool.

The question stuck in Jason’s throat.

He had no right to ask. His relationship with Vivi was purely transactional. They weren’t partners. Once the deal was done, they had no further connection. He had no grounds to demand answers. He shouldn’t even have come after her—it only made him look foolish, worrying about someone who couldn’t die.

“Uh…” Vivi blinked her green eyes, her tone cautious. “Do you still want your bike?”

“It’s not broken,” Jason said coldly.

“Then park it in the back and help me drive this truck?” Vivi grinned. “Hey, don’t be mad. I didn’t mean to forget about you…”

“Our deal was that you’d tell me where the Joker is.”

Vivi tilted her head. “We’ll go find the Joker. As compensation, I’ll throw in Scarecrow’s location for free—no charge.”