CITY HALL – SUBLEVEL B3, PRIVATE OPERATIONS ROOM
The hum of machines echoed low in the room. Servers lined the walls, blinking like a city at night. Screens glowed with code and faces and maps. This wasn't the kind of place the public ever saw. It wasn't on any blueprints.
And Diana was sitting in the middle of it all. Alone in a chair, one leg crossed, arms folded, eyes fixed on the main monitor as her tech team moved around her like nervous bees.
Her white suit was gone—traded for a black tactical turtleneck, hair tied back, heels kicked off beside the chair. Her right foot tapped softly against the concrete floor. Not out of anxiety. She was just… thinking.
The hacker's message kept looping in her head.
"I am Mikhail. One of the Five Fingers of the Hand."
"My boss says: I know what you did. And retribution is coming for you."
That voice didn't tremble. Didn't rush. Whoever sent that message wasn't scared. They wanted her to hear it.
"Any luck?" she asked without looking away from the screen.
One of her lead techs, a guy named Rory with a permanent coffee stain on his hoodie and red-rimmed eyes, looked up from his keyboard.
"Whoever did this… isn't just good. They're unreal. Signal bounced off a ghost node in Syria, passed through an offshore rig in the North Atlantic, rerouted into a dead satellite that hasn't broadcasted since 2003. By the time it got here, it looked like a weather alert."
Diana's eyes narrowed. "That's not luck. That's choreography."
"Exactly," Rory said. "And then it gets worse."
He tapped a key. The screen shifted—lines of distorted images scrambled through video filters and decoders.
"This isn't a pre-recorded message. That was live."
Diana's foot stopped tapping.
"Live?"
"Yeah. Someone sat down in real time, stared right at you, and hit play. Whoever it was? They knew we wouldn't trace it fast enough. They wanted the performance."
Another tech—a younger girl named Lin, fast fingers and sharp eyes—spoke up from across the room.
"The glitch that hit all the devices? It only affected this room and the six security cams outside. None of the other city departments were touched."
"So it was targeted."
"Laser-focused."
Diana stood up. Walked slowly to the main monitor. The video was paused on the figure—Mikhail—sitting still like a statue, face completely hidden, voice still echoing in her ears.
She stared at it for a long time.
Then: "Enhance the image. I want reflections, shadows, background noise—anything."
Rory bit his lip. "We already ran the standard filters. The feed's been scrubbed to hell. I mean, we can try some deeper layer tracing—"
"Try harder," Diana cut in, voice cool. "If I wanted excuses, I'd hire politicians."
Lin gave a small nod and turned back to her screen, typing faster.
The heavy door slid open with a sharp hiss.
Bruce walked in, soaked from the rain, dark coat clinging to his frame, hair dripping. He didn't wait for anyone to acknowledge him. His boots hit the floor with solid weight as he stepped into the tension-filled room.
"Heard what happened," he said calmly, eyes locked on Diana. "Rushed here fast as I could. What's the update on the hacker?"
Diana didn't even turn to look at him. Her arms were crossed, eyes still locked on the dark monitor. Her voice came cold.
"Didn't call you."
Bruce let out a soft sigh, wiping the water from his brow with his sleeve. "Yeah… figured."
He glanced around the room, caught the nervous look on Rory's face—the lead tech guy—still typing with shaky hands.
"Move."
Rory blinked. "Sir, I—"
Bruce didn't repeat himself. Just gave him a stare that said enough.
Rory stood up and stepped aside, mumbling something under his breath.
Bruce sat on the desk like it was his living room couch, leaned in, cracked his fingers, and started typing. Fast. Fluid. Like he'd done it a thousand times.
Everyone watched.
Diana didn't speak. Just narrowed her eyes, arms still crossed.
Bruce's fingers moved like a blur over the keys. One monitor flashed. Then another. A security breach map lit up in red. Code spilled across the screen. Firewalls dropped. Signals jumped.
He stopped.
One last key click.
Boom.
The screen locked onto a location—an abandoned ship docked off the industrial coastline. A map rendered in real-time. Then a face. Not fully clear—fuzzy scan, but good enough to grab the profile.
Man. Masked in the video. Now unmasked.
"Mikhail Ivanov," Bruce muttered. "Russian black ops. Supposed to be dead six years ago."
The room fell silent.
Bruce leaned back, raised an eyebrow, and glanced at Diana.
"Done."
He stood up, walked past Rory, gave him a pat on the shoulder. "Seat's all yours, champ."
Rory sat back down, face pale.
Diana finally turned. Her expression hadn't softened. Not one bit.
"You weren't supposed to be involved."
Bruce looked her in the eye.
"You're family. Doesn't matter what you want."
She clenched her jaw. Said nothing. Just stared.
Bruce looked at the screen again.
"Five Fingers," he said quietly. "Never heard of them."
"Neither have I," Diana answered.
"And that's the problem."
He picked up a towel from the side table, wiped his wet hands, and tossed it back.
"You want me to go check it out?" he asked, almost casually.
"No. I've got my own people for that," Diana said without looking back, her heels clicking as she walked out of the room.
Bruce watched her go, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small, knowing smirk.
He followed, slower, hands in his coat pockets.
Once he was in the hallway, he pulled out his phone and typed a message with one thumb:
They're on the move. Get ready.
Sent.
He slid the phone back in his pocket, eyes drifting to Diana ahead of him. She had the phone to her ear now, voice low, sharp. She was already giving orders, mobilizing her team to move on the location he found.
Bruce watched her for a moment. Calm. Quiet.
Then he looked away, heading down the opposite hall.
"Let's see how deep this goes," he muttered under his breath.