Cat and the Canary

• We start in a dull hospital where machines beep rhythmically from within the private room. An old woman lies in her hospital bed, wires and monitors attached to her like she is tangled in a spider’s web. Sat next to her is a man with graying hair and his head in his hands. Diana Lance, once the Black Canary, once a bombshell in a blue leather jacket, now lay a frail figure against starched sheets, dying from terminal thyroid cancer. Her skin was paper, her breaths were short, but her eyes still glazed with warmth. And Ted Grant, Wildcat in another life, his shoulders broader than the hospital chair could handle. Time hadn’t been kind to either of them, but Ted looked like he was still halfway between a fight and a funeral. His thick hands moved off of his eyes and folded tightly in his lap. Just outside the room, a small girl hummed to herself while coloring on the floor. Her hair was a little messy, her shoes untied, her crayon strokes wild and unbothered in the moment. She didn’t seem to notice the nurse pass by. Her name was Dina Lance and she didn’t seem to realize her world was quietly slipping into a different shape. Diana whispered, “She doesn’t know.” Ted swallowed and nodded without looking up. “She thinks I’m going to come home.” Silence hung like fog. “I’m all that little girl has left,” Diana said, barely louder than the machines. Ted blinked hard, his jaw tightening. “Her parents…” “I know,” he said. “I need you to promise me something,” she rasped, “Ted, I need you to take care of her. Keep her safe. Teach her. Make sure she knows who she is.” His throat caught. He looked at the floor, “I—I can’t. Di, I—” “Yes, you can,” she said, and this time her voice had that old bite to it, “I’ve known you for longer than anyone else. I’ve watched you go from the ring to beating up Nazis better than the rest of our team. But you’ve got something even better than those metahuman meatheads. Your biggest muscle has always been your heart.” She started to smile, but the cough that followed stole it from her. Ted reached for her hand and gripped it gently, “I’ll do it,” he said, voice thick and low, “I will take care of her.”

• Only a week and a half passed, ten days time before the machines went quiet. Now Ted Grant stood outside the entrance to his gym. Wildcat’s Gym, the letters half-burnt out on the neon sign. One hand gripped the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. The other gently rested on the head of the little girl beside him. Dina didn’t say much. Just stared up at the building like it was supposed to be her new home. She’d rather be anywhere else in the world than a boxing gym in a neighborhood that forgot that you were supposed to be asleep at night. The stairs creaked as they climbed to the top floor apartment. A simple place. Clean enough, with creaky wood floors and a window that faced an alley full of pigeons. It smelled like leather, sweat, and Tiger Balm. “You hungry?” Ted asked. Dina shook her head. “Alright then. Come on. Got somethin’ to show you.” He led her back down to the main gym. The lights buzzed awake above them, revealing the old punching bags, faded ring ropes, and posters yellowed with time. Shots of himself in his prime, arms raised, gloves streaked with blood and glory. He handed her a pair of youth gloves. She looked at them, unsure. “Just try them on,” he said, “Let it out. It’s just you and the bag.” She didn’t speak, but slipped them on with trembling fingers. Ted stood back and watched as she squared up, small fists raised too high, stance too wide. He didn’t correct her. The first punch was soft, awkward. Then another. Then more. Soon her arms were flying. No rhythm, no style, just a storm of little jabs and palms and half-formed strikes that came from somewhere deeper than her arms. Her eyes filled in the way a kid’s does when they try not to cry and they know they won’t be able to stop. Ted’s face softened, “You get that fight from your grandma,” he said quietly. But the storm wasn’t over. With one final punch, a wild unbalanced swing, Dina let out a scream. A sonic blast that cracked the bag’s chains and sent it swinging violently off its hook, echoing through the gym like a thunderclap. Windows rattled, lights flickered, pigeons scattered from the alley. Dina gasped in fear and fell to her knees, clutching her ears. Ted didn’t move right away. “...Huh,” he muttered, scratching his chin, “Looks like you got that from your grandma too.” He knelt beside her, one big arm wrapping around her shoulders. She leaned into him without a word, her tiny frame shaking. For the first time since even her parents’ passing, she let herself cry. And Ted held her there. A bruiser of a man trying to become something more than a fighter. Trying to be someone worth trusting. Someone she could hold onto.

• Many years passed. Dina got older. So did Ted. Wildcat’s Gym still stood, barely. The paint on the front door peeled in long strips. The floorboards creaked louder now. But the ring still held. And so did Ted. Dina was 19 years old now. Taller, stronger. Her stance tight, fists sharp, eyes sharper. She ducked a jab and countered with a cross that smacked into the training mitts Ted wore with a satisfying thud, “That’s it, kid,” he said, pulling his arms down, breathing heavier than he used to, “You keep throwin’ like that, you’ll knock somebody into next week.” She grinned, “You say that every time.” “Duh yeah. And next week keeps showin up, don’t it?” They stepped out of the ring. Ted tossed the mitts onto a bench, wiped his brow with a towel, then sat, slower than he meant to, with a grunt he didn’t want her to hear. Dina grabbed the water bottle, flopped down beside him, and looked around. The gym was empty. It had been all day. “You ever gonna admit this place is hurting?” she asked. He gave a low chuckle, “This place has been hurtin’ since Nixon. But we’re still here, ain’t we?” She reciprocated a nervous smile. Then a door opened near the back. Ted looked over, suddenly alert, and stood up a little too quickly, catching the edge of the bench to steady himself, “Be right back,” he said. Dina watched as he moved toward the alley door, the one they never used. A man with a pressed jacket and a briefcase stood waiting just outside. Ted opened the door just enough to slip through. She couldn’t hear the words, but she saw the envelope. The quick handshake. The way Ted pocketed it like it burned. He came back in a moment later, brushing his hands like he’d just taken out the trash. “What was that?” Dina asked. Ted dismissed her, “Nothing important.” “You getting slid some shady envelope in an alley isn’t important?” He looked at her and tried to play it off, “It’s just some friends of the gym. Don’t worry about it.” “Ted—” “I said don’t worry.” His voice came out a little meaner than he meant. Then he saw it in her eyes, the way her shoulders pulled back, the way she squared up like it was a fight. She wasn’t going to let this go. After all, she had his fire, Diana’s too. He sighed and softened, “Kid… some of the old guard still believes in places like this. They just don’t wanna be seen doing it, that’s all.” She didn’t buy it. Not fully, but she let it go. For now. But somewhere in the pit of her stomach, a knot began to form. 

• Dina was supposed to be in her community college class, Sociology 101. Tonight they had a quiz on family structures. But the only structure she could focus on was the crooked shape of Ted’s back as he ducked out of the gym, long after hours, duffel slung behind him through the alley. She followed from the shadows, feet soft on the cracked sidewalk. He didn’t notice. He never noticed when she didn’t want to be seen. But he moved quick for an old man. Turned down streets he didn’t normally use. Eventually, they reached it. A door behind a pawn shop that was supposed to be condemned. He knocked a sort of patterned rhythm. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. An eye slot in the door opened and Ted was let in. She waited five minutes. Then ten. He hadn’t come out yet. So she took a breath before confidently repeating the knock for herself, KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK, and she was in. 

• And before her eyes, the truth unwraveled. An underworld fight club was underneath the city, half parking garage, half sewer system, all wrong. Rusted piping ran overhead like veins, dripping into corners that reeked of old shit. The ring was squared by chain-link fencing and backed by cheering bodies, shoulder to shoulder, betting cash and futures on fists and fury. Dina slipped into the crowd. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but certainly not this. The flamboyant pink announcer’s voice crackled over a makeshift PA, “Next up, we’ve got a face-off for the females! Redclaw versus Cupid!” Redclaw stormed into the ring, leather cracking with every step, face fixed on her opponent. Cupid followed, smile sweet but crooked. The bell rang. Palms clashed and fists flew. For a moment, it looked like Redclaw had her on the ropes, but Cupid spun into a knee strike that dropped her like a marionette with its strings cut. The crowd roared. Next came Black Spider, stealth and smug, dropping into the ring from a web like he’d already won. On the other side, Onyx Adams, calm and collected.  It started fast. Web lines shot out from Black Spider’s wrists, snagging her arm mid-swing. “Hey!” The announcer, El Flamingo’s voice barked from the catwalk, pointing a furious hand, “No webs! No weapons! Hand-to-hand, hermano!” But Onyx didn’t need him to follow the rules. She used the webs. Yanked forward, she drove a knee up into Black Spider’s chin, then followed with a crushing elbow that knocked him flat. Cheers swelled again, some louder than others. Others booed the way they sound when somebody loses money.

• But that’s when she saw him, Wildcat. Not Ted Grant the trainer. Not the gray-haired mentor who limped after long sessions. But Wildcat, the man from the old newspaper clippings. The man her grandmother used to spar with. The man in the faded posters on the gym walls. Mask. Gloves. Shoulders squared like the years hadn’t touched him. Stepping into the ring like it owed him money. Across from him, a slab of scaled muscle, Waylon Jones, Killer Croc. The crowd got quiet. Then loud again. Then feral. Croc lunged first, no patience, and Wildcat slipped him. Duck. Uppercut. Elbow to the ribs. A right hook to the gut that actually made Croc grunt. It wasn’t clean. A slam into the cage. A backhand that knocked him into a corner. But he didn’t fall. And when Croc dropped his guard for just a second, Wildcat hit him with a three-piece combo so fast Dina didn’t even catch the middle punch. Croc crashed like a falling tree. The room exploded in thunderous applause. Bets were cashed. Voices screamed. El Flamingo lit a match for his cigar off Croc’s unconscious scales before he was carted off. But Dina didn’t move. She just stared at the man in the ring. Because that wasn’t just a fight. That was a confession. And it changed everything.

• High above the ring, behind mirrored glass, Roulette watched the chaos unfold with a wine glass in one hand and a stylus in the other. Her nails tapped slowly against the tablet screen as she took notes with the detached poise of someone inspecting livestock. The lighting in her private suite was soft and honey-colored, contrasting the raw violence below. “I’ve seen enough of Waylon Jones,” came a precise voice from behind her. She just sipped her wine, “I imagine most people have after about ten seconds.” Sensei stepped forward into the light, the gleam in his eye unreadable as ever. His hands were folded behind his back, posture stiff and unforgiving, “He’s all muscle. No control.” Roulette asked, raising an eyebrow, “You don’t want to test my merchandise further?” “He’s a wild animal,” Sensei said plainly, “And such disorder will not enter our temples.” A second figure leaned against the far wall, David Cain. His arms were crossed, “But that girl. The one who beat Black Spider. Onyx Adams.” Roulette smiled, finally turning, “Now that’s a name I expected to hear.” “She’s rough,” Cain said, “But resourceful. Holds back just enough. Knows where the jaw hinges. She’s clearly had some teaching already.” Sensei glanced toward him, “Taught by whom?” “Well clearly somebody who knows what their doing,” Cain replied, “Which makes her interesting. She’ll learn the rest from us.” Roulette walked toward a monitor showing replay footage from earlier fights. She paused on a freeze frame of Onyx mid-strike, then another of Cupid bowing theatrically after her win. “So those are your two? Not the costumed relic in the cat mask?” Cain shrugged, “Wildcat’s an old man. Still got more technique than half your stable, but what’s the point? You know he would never play ball with us. Plus, he’s past his prime.” “He’s got spirit, though,” Roulette said, dragging a finger down his file, “And that sells well in round three.” Sensei made a small dismissive noise in his throat. “A great sparing partner to toughen the next generation, then. We see this as his true purpose.” “Fine.” Roulette set her wine glass down on the table and looked at both men, “We’re not just putting on a show here. These matches are more than bloodsport, they’re auditions. So please, stop wasting your breath and tell me what I can mark you down for.” “ We’ll take the girl,” Sensei said, with finality, “The one with potential. The one who learns before she strikes.” Cain added, pushing off the wall, “And leave the beasts and burnouts to the low level mobsters. Let them think they’re sharks. Meanwhile, we’ll find ourselves the real predators.” Roulette smiled again, “Thank you for recognizing the luxury products we’ve been curating.” Outside, the crowd howled as another bell rang. And beneath it all, somewhere in the seams of the night, the League of Assassins quietly made their picks.

• Ted stepped into the velvet-lit office above the ring, sweat still slick on his brow.  The Wildcat mask hung loosely from one hand. The other reached across the desk to take the envelope Roulette offered him. “Nice work out there,” she purred, already moving her eyes to the next monitor, “Jones is a brute, but you made that look like art.” Ted didn’t respond. Just gave a curt nod and turned to leave. But he stopped short because there, standing in the doorway, was Dina, “Ted.” His whole body flinched at the sound. “Kid… what are you doing here?” “You tell me,” she said, stepping in fully now, “Because it looks like you’re fighting mutants in backroom clubs for mob cash. You’re wearing the suit, Ted.” He swallowed hard, “We shouldn’t talk here.” “No,” she said, not moving, “We should. Right here. Right now.” Roulette looked between them with amused detachment, “Family drama in the ring office? It gets old fast.” Ted threw her a look, “We’re leaving.” He turned back to Dina, his voice lower now, trying to cool things down, “Come on, kid. We’ll talk downstairs.” She followed, but not before glancing back, where Sensei now stood in the far corner, arms folded, watching her like a hawk watches a mouse. “That one has tenacity,” he said to Roulette once the pair had left. Roulette leaned back against her desk, smirking, “I hear that’s not all she’s got.” Sensei’s eyes widened, “Is she fighting tonight?” Roulette clicked her tongue, “Not as of yet.” “Pity,” Sensei said, “I’d like to see what she does when cornered.” Roulette swirled her drink, eyes back on the screen, “Maybe some other time.”

• Dim lights hung Ted as he sat on the bench, slowly re-taping his wrists with hands that weren’t as steady as they used to be. The Wildcat mask sat beside him. It looked older than he did. Dina shut the door behind her, “What the hell are you doing, Ted?” He didn’t look up, “This truthfully ain’t the time for that.” “No, you told me not to worry. You lied.” He sighed, pulling the wrap tighter, “It’s just a fight, kid.” “No, it’s not,” she snapped, stepping forward, “It’s gambling. It’s bloodsport. You’re letting them use you.” He snapped up, “No!” he said, “I chose this. I’m not some puppet, Dina. I knew what I was getting into.” “And what, I’m just supposed to let you throw yourself into this mess for a little cash?” “Oh shut it, little girl. It ain’t just as simple as cash.” She blinked and her fists clenched, “Then what!?” “For your grandma!” he shouted, louder than the door could hold. The room went still. His voice dropped, rougher now, “For you. I’m doing this for you. So you don’t have to scrape by. So you can finish school. So you don’t end up in a cage like this.” Dina stared at him, then shook her head, “You think I’m not already in one? You think I don’t see what this is doing to you? So let me fight.” “No way in hell,” he said, rising to his feet, towering over her like the old days. She pushed him, “And why not?! Isn’t this what you trained me for?!” He slammed his taped hand through a locker, “I trained you to defend yourself!” She didn’t flinch, “And what about defending the people I love?” Her question landed harder than any punch. Ted looked away, jaw working. “I’ve made bad calls, kid,” he muttered, “Been in deep with bad people. Done things I’d take back in a heartbeat if I could.” “You’re not a bad man, Ted,” she said. “You’re a hero.” He shook his head, “Don’t give me that BS.” She said, stepping forward, voice softer now, “I’m not. You’re MY hero.” Ted sank and Dina went on, “You taught me right from wrong. You taught me to stand up for myself. You taught me to fight with my heart. You saved me, Ted.” For a second, neither spoke. Then from beyond the room, an announcer’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker, calling the next bout. Ted closed his eyes, “That’s me.” Dina grabbed his arm, “This isn’t over.” He gave a tired look, “Never is.” Then he pulled the mask down over his face and walked out the door.

• The crowd inside the fight club was louder this time. Hungry, electric, almost rabid. The ring was slick with the gloss of earlier matches, but no one seemed to care. All eyes were on the two fighters stepping into the center. Wildcat versus Onyx Adams. Ted cracked his neck with a slow roll and raised his fists. Across from him, Onyx stood calm, collected, coiled like a snake waiting to strike. She was younger, faster. But Ted Grant had never let numbers beat him before. The bell rang. It started brutal and fast. Onyx launched with a low kick. Ted blocked it with his forearms, but it still rocked him. His counters were slower than they used to be, and every time he tried to go high, she slipped under and landed body shots that echoed like thunder in the underground arena. From the side of the ring, Dina stood tense, white-knuckled against the railing. Her eyes never left Ted. Every blow he took, she felt. Every time he staggered, her heart jumped to her throat. He wasn’t winning this like the last one. He landed a few solid hooks that made the crowd erupt, but Onyx kept moving. Spinning elbow. A takedown Ted barely rolled out of. When he came back up, he was breathing heavy and bleeding from the mouth. Dina took a step forward towards the ring but a voice stopped her cold. “No,” El Flamingo’s voice was sharp. He was blocking her path, arms crossed, “You jump in, he forfeits the cut. No payout. Two against one ain’t the way. That’s not the game.” Dina started, “But he’s—” “You want to help him?” El Flamingo plumped his lip out in fake pity, “Then let him finish the fight, darling.” In the ring, Ted caught sight of her from the corner of his eye, “Back off,” he spat through his teeth, “Respect the rules.” It hit her like a slap because he meant it. Dina froze in place. Wildcat took a deep breath, wiped the blood from his lip, and reset his stance. Round two was savage. They traded blow for blow, sweat and blood flying with each hit. Onyx nearly dropped him with a spinning heel kick, he barely ducked under it and countered with a low jab to her ribs. She faltered and he didn’t. Uppercut. Body shot. Elbow. Another hook. And finally, the knockout punch, pure Wildcat. Full weight behind it, straight across the jaw. Onyx hit the mat hard. The crowd roared. Ted stood there, chest heaving, arms dropped to his sides. For a moment, he didn’t even look like he heard them. He just glanced up at Dina. Still standing.

• Ted stumbled out of the ring, sweat pouring, blood crusting on his cheek. His chest heaved with every breath like each one had to fight its way out. He moved like a man caught between victory and collapse. Dina met him halfway, “Ted!” she said, throwing his arm around her shoulder, voice a mix of relief and fear, “What was that?! You could’ve died in there!” He didn’t answer right away, just wiped his face with the back of his glove and winced, “You know I got nine lives, baby girl. But that’s enough. I’m done,” he said hoarsely, trying to steady his legs, “C’mon. Let’s go get what this was all about.” She stared at him like he’d lost his mind, but she followed. Up the back stairs, past the velvet curtain, into the honey-lit office. Roulette didn’t even look up from her screen, “Well done, Wildcat,” she purred. Without turning, she slid a briefcase across the glass table with her perfectly manicured fingers. “Your winnings. Full cut. You’ve earned it.” Ted reached for it, but Dina got there first. She grabbed the handle and pulled it to her chest like it was a ticking bomb, “Great,” she said, “He’s finished. We’re leaving.” But Roulette’s lips curled with amusement, “Oh, why would you be leaving so soon now?” Ted blinked, “What now, lady?” She finally looked up, eyes glittering, “You’ve made it to the final round.” He froze. His head tilted ever so slightly, “You don’t say?” “Ted,” Dina warned. Roulette continued through her devious smile, “Just one more. One final fight. Winner gets triple the cut. And all the glory that comes with it.” She let her offer permeate the air like perfume. Dina stepped forward, “Nice try. We’re done. We have more than what we need right here. So, bye.” But Ted wasn’t looking at her. He was still staring at the floor, remembering, maybe even hoping. He muttered, almost to himself, “Final round..?” Roulette leaned closer, tone silk, “You’ve still got gas in the tank. The crowd loves you. Hell, some of my personal investors do too. Just one more, Ted. You walk out a legend.” “Ted,” Dina said again, grabbing him, more insistent this time, “We don’t need this. You said this was just for me. You’ve got what you came for.” But Ted didn’t move, “You saw me. Out there, I can still do it.” Dina’s eyes filled with disbelief, “We’ve got the money.” “It’s not more money!” he snapped. Roulette looked pleased. Ted turned to Dina, eyes pleading, like he couldn’t quite explain what was chewing him up from the inside, “You think I’ve got anything else left in MY life? My gym’s dying. My name’s forgottten. People look at me and see a washed-up bruiser who should’ve hung up his gloves a decade ago. But out there…” He motioned toward the ring, “Out there, I’m still Wildcat.” “Ted…” He shook his head, voice ashamed and certain, “I need this.” “You don’t,” Dina said quietly, “You’ve got a lot to lose. Like me.” He looked at her. And for the briefest second, something in his face shifted. Pain, guilt, shame. But then he turned to Roulette and said, “I’ll do it.”

• Ted sat in the corner of the ring, slumped on the low stool, the edges of his vision still hazy. But Dina knelt beside him, wrapping his wrists one last time, hands trembling just slightly. She was trying so hard to keep it together. “Are you sure you can handle this?” she asked, voice low, not like before when she was fighting him. This was different, she really needed to know his truth. Ted gave her a crooked smile. One corner of his bruised mouth curled up, “You think I didn’t take worse back in France? Hell, your grandma and I once dropped a guy who looked like a Bigfoot. Whoever this is, he’s just another punk.” He tapped his chest lightly, “Steel in here, remember?” She just looked at him with eyes that had too much hope in them. Then the spotlight shifted. El Flamingo’s voice echoed from the speakers, amplified and theatrical, “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and bloodthirsty gamblers, welcome to the final round! In the blue corner, the legend, the fist behind the feline, give it up for WILDCAT!” The crowd cheered, ferocious and feral. Ted rose, shaking off the pain like dust, raising one fist into the air. “And in the red corner…” El Flamingo’s voice dipped low, like a secret about to be shared, “A rising star from the streets of Santa Prisca, a prodigy of power, a man molded by struggle, put your hands together for the promising young titan himself… BANEEEEEEE!” The cheers became something else. A thunder clap of applause. And out of the opposite corner stepped a figure thick with earned muscle and menace. His chest was bare, save for thick leather straps crisscrossing his torso. His eyes were sharp behind a crude, early mask that covered his mouth but left nothing to the imagination about his intent. Bane didn’t raise his fists. He just stared. Wildcat smirked and rolled his neck and squared his shoulders, “What’s the matter kid, cat got your tongue?.” The bell rang. DING. Ted moved with muscle memory, ducking, weaving, his fists landing with expert precision, rib shots, jabs to the temple. Bane grunted, stumbled once, but didn’t fall. He learned enough to retaliate. A punch to Ted’s ribs sent him flying backward into the cage wall. Ted got up, of course he did. Then another, an uppercut that cracked something deeper than bone. Still, Ted rose again. The crowd was too invested to cheer. Now they just watched. Every punch from Wildcat was textbook. But every punch from Bane was punishment. Ted landed four clean shots in a row. Bane landed one. But hat’s all he needed, Bane was calculating. Ted’s knees buckled. Dina stood at the edge of the ring, eyes wide, nails digging into the railing, “Come on, come on…” Ted got up again. Then one final hit came, Bane swung a fist straight into Ted’s chest. A deep, brutal thud. Ted staggered. His wrapped hands clenched tight, his knees shook. Then he brought a hand to his chest, right over his heart. Dina screamed, “Ted!” He fell. But Bane didn’t stop. He landed two more hits on the way down, like a hammer striking a nail. Ted was down, flat on his back, his limbs twitching. His mouth opened but no words came, just a ragged gasp. His heart wasn’t keeping up anymore. It was screaming and failing. Roulette watched, from her glass booth, didn’t move.

• “NO!” Dina’s scream distorted into a canary shriek that tore through the arena, and then kept going. It sharpened, splintered the air itself. Her grief exploded outward in a concussive wave of pure sound. Bane was thrown back like a rag doll, crashing into the cage wall with enough force to bend steel. The crowd gasped, some ducking, others frozen in awe and disbelief. She didn’t stop to watch him fall, she was already running towards Ted. El Flamingo stepped in front of her, arms spread wide, “No interference! That’s the rule!” She didn’t hesitate, with a sharp pivot, a low sweep, and she flipped him clean out of the ring. Dina dropped to her knees beside Ted, “C’mon, c’mon…” She tilted his head, checked his pulse, his breath. Nothing. Her hands moved fast, shaky but practiced, compressions, breaths, more compressions, “Stay with me, Ted. Please.” Each pump of her palms was desperate. Her tears hit his chest, mixing with the sweat and blood already there. But Ted’s was not responsing, “Come on!” She kept going. Again. Again. Her mouth to his, her fists to his chest.. But it was over. The great Ted Grant was finished. 

• Sensei whispered as they approached the ring, “Oh yes. My master will be very pleased with this champion. A death in the ring? A sacrifice to the art. Your Wildcat will be remembered well.” And the crowd? They roared for Bane. They didn’t care about the girl crying in the center of the ring. They cared about the victor. Bane climbed back through the ropes, bruised but standing tall. He approached slowly, arms outstretched, waiting for El Flamingo to return and raise his hand but he didn’t get that far. Dina rose. Her face was wet. Her hands were still balled into trembling fists. But she stood between Bane and Ted’s body, and every ounce of sorrow in her frame had turned to fire as she squared up. The crowd’s cheers dulled to murmurs. This wasn’t part of the program. Bane hesitated, he knew better. But then David Cain lept up onto the platform, calm and measured, a sheathed sword over one shoulder and a pistol loose in his other hand. “Well,” he said, voice like a knife dragged across gravel, “You’ve got guts, kid.” He looked her over, head tilted slightly, “But guts get you killed.” She didn’t flinch. Cain raised the gun, “You sure you want this?” Still, she didn’t move. He nodded to himself, as if pleased with her answer, “Fine,” he said, drawing the blade with a slick metallic whisper, “Have it your way.”

But a sharp voice cut across the ring like a whip, “WAIT!” Roulette stepped forward, her voice smooth as silk, “Let’s not be so hasty, gentlemen. We’ve had quite enough… unplanned bloodshed for one evening.” Cain paused mid-step, the tip of his sword pointed at Dina’s cheek, “SHE threw the first cry.” “And your new boy kept swinging after the bell,” Roulette replied, “Let’s call it even before this place turns into a massacre and my profits go up in flames.” Dina didn’t lower her fists, “I don’t care about your profits. I’ll fight all of you if I have to.” Cain chuckled, then made a subtle gesture. Around the ring, figures stepped forward. The future soldiers of the League of Assassins, the new recruits that Sensei and Cain had handpicked. “You think you can take on all of them?” Cain asked, “And walk away?” Dina’s breath shook, but her stance didn’t falter. Roulette rolled her eyes, “Enough.” She raised a single hand and, “She’s going to walk away. That’s not a request,” she said. “Wildcat earned his pay. And like it or not, he had always named her as the benefactor in the event of his expiration.” She looked down at Dina, “So take the money, little bird. Take it and fly away before you bleed out chasing a ghost.” But Dina still stood square. Her eyes went from David Cain… to the case of blood-earned cash… to Bane… and finally to Ted’s body. Ted, her mentor. The closest thing she’d had father. The man who raised her with bruised knuckles and a lion’s heart. Slowly, she stepped forward, but not toward the case and not toward Roulette, but toward the body. She knelt beside him again. Reverently. And then, with one arm around his back and the other under his legs, she lifted him. Carried him. He wasn’t light, but she didn’t stumble. She walked, steady, out of the ring, past Cain, past Sensei, past the stunned crowd now hushed in awe. “I want nothing to do with that money,” she said, without looking back. And then she was gone. Out the door, into the cold night air, with Ted Grant in her arms.