Grand Plaza Hotel, Gotham City, Morning
The Grand Plaza Hotel suite provided optimal vantage points while remaining discreetly positioned away from Gotham's more recognizable landmarks. Lady Shiva preferred this strategic anonymity, existing in plain sight while remaining effectively invisible. From her forty-third floor window, she could observe the east side of the Gotham Royal Hotel where Harvey Dent would attend tonight's fundraiser.
Dawn had barely broken over Gotham's jagged skyline. Most of the city still slept, but Lady Shiva had been awake for hours. Sleep, like food and water, was merely a biological necessity to be managed with ruthless efficiency—five hours precisely, from 11 PM to 4 AM, the minimum required for optimal physical and mental performance.
Sandra Wu-San, the name she had abandoned long ago, moved with liquid precision through her morning kata, each movement executed with flawless control. Her bare feet made no sound against the suite's plush carpet as she flowed from stance to stance, her breathing so controlled that an observer might wonder if she breathed at all.
The routine had remained unchanged for twenty-three years. One hundred precisely executed movements, each one targeting specific muscle groups, neural pathways, and energy meridians. Unlike the showy techniques practiced in commercial dojos, Shiva's form contained no wasted motion, no aesthetic flourishes. Each position flowed into the next with mathematical precision, creating a deadly choreography that resembled dance only in its fluid grace.
Six days of surveillance had yielded a comprehensive understanding of Dent's habits, security, and vulnerabilities. In that time, she'd gained insight into the chaotic string of attacks plaguing Gotham, a spectacle of varied success and failure that had unfolded while she quietly prepared.
Deathstroke had successfully eliminated his targets at Haly's Circus, leaving a grieving child as collateral damage, effective but unnecessarily theatrical. Deadshot had already put a bullet through Councilman Grogan's temple by the time Batman reached him, though the vigilante managed to subdue the expert marksman afterward. Kraven the Hunter had nearly overpowered Batman with his enhanced abilities until a specialized neural disruptor temporarily overwhelmed his heightened senses, giving Batman the opening needed to take him down. Batman had turned the tables on Taskmaster using unpredictable acrobatic techniques, rescuing Rachel Dawes from his elaborate trap at Dixon Docks.
Copperhead had proven the most intriguing case, her toxins had actually worked on Batman, leaving him incapacitated according to Shiva's intelligence sources. Yet somehow he had recovered with surprising speed, appearing back in action within a day rather than weeks. "Talia," Shiva concluded with quiet certainty. Only the Daughter of the Demon would have access to Lazarus waters to heal her beloved. What truly fascinated Shiva, however, was how Copperhead had been captured
Not by Batman, but with assistance from what reports described as a young accomplice in distinctive blue attire. The whispers circulating through Gotham suggested Batman had taken on a protégé, a development Shiva found both surprising and potentially significant for her assessment. What had sealed Copperhead's fate wasn't just her formulaic approach with toxins, but Deathstroke's calculated abandonment when the operation went sideways. "Typical Larissa," Shiva thought with a hint of contempt. "Always using her considerable charms to secure alliances, particularly with men like Wilson. And always shocked when they prioritize the contract over loyalty." The woman's confidence in her feminine wiles had proven as toxic as her venom when Deathstroke left her to face Talia and Batman's new young ally alone.
And then there was Bane, physically the most imposing and intellectually the most formidable of them all. He'd breached GCPD headquarters with military precision, demolished the building, and extracted all four previously captured assassins before engaging Batman directly. Reports were fragmented, but what Shiva had pieced together suggested a brutal confrontation that left both combatants grievously injured. Yet somehow, despite his tactical brilliance and enhanced strength, Bane had been captured, apparently overcome when Batman targeted his Venom delivery system, triggering a catastrophic overdose that briefly rendered him unconscious.
"Always the same weakness," Shiva mused with something approaching genuine regret. She'd respected Bane more than the others, his strategic mind, his philosophical approach to combat, his understanding of power's true nature. But the Venom had ultimately proven his undoing, as she'd warned him years ago during their brief time together. The substance that granted him such overwhelming physical advantages had become both crutch and vulnerability. A dependency he refused to acknowledge even as it compromised his otherwise impeccable judgment. Such a waste of potential.
All of these operatives possessed remarkable abilities, yet their mixed results didn't surprise her. Each relied too heavily on external factors: weapons, technology, chemical enhancements, or theatrical displays of power. Such dependencies created vulnerabilities that could be exploited by a prepared opponent.
Lady Shiva had no such weaknesses. Her body was her weapon, honed through decades of relentless training. When she was twelve, she had broken her own fingers repeatedly to strengthen the bones and deaden the nerve endings, ensuring she could strike with full force without experiencing limiting pain. At fifteen, she had spent six months in the mountains of northern China, practicing forms in waist-deep snow until her movements remained perfect even when her body was on the edge of hypothermia. By twenty, she had mastered thirty-seven distinct martial arts, not as separate disciplines but as a unified whole.
Her regimen never varied, not for illness, injury, or the rare personal indulgence. Five hundred one-finger push-ups on each hand. Three hundred inverted crunches while suspended from the ceiling. Two hours of pressure point practice on a specially designed mannequin, with impact sensors calibrated to register the exact force needed to incapacitate, paralyze, or kill.
Even now, in a luxury hotel suite with a contract to fulfill, she maintained her discipline. The location changed, but the routine remained. Consistency was the foundation of perfection.
As she transitioned into the most demanding sequence of her morning kata, a series of strikes so precisely targeted they could stop a human heart through three inches of body armor, her mind remained clinically detached, observing her own performance with the critical eye of both student and master.
The arc of her right hand was 0.4 degrees too wide. Unacceptable. She repeated the movement, correcting the imperfection. A single drop of sweat threatened to fall from her brow, a sign that her internal temperature regulation needed adjustment. She altered her breathing pattern, resolving the imbalance instantly.
From the moment she witnessed her twin sister's murder at the age of eight, killed to punish their parents for a perceived slight against a local warlord, she had dedicated herself to becoming the perfect instrument of death. That day remained etched in her memory with photographic clarity: the village square in rural China, her sister Carolyn's hand clutched in hers, the sudden arrival of the warlord's men. Their father, a small-town doctor who had refused to provide the warlord with opiates, pushed to his knees in the dirt. Their mother screaming as she was restrained.
The warlord's lieutenant had separated the twin girls, examining them as if they were livestock at auction. "One will be an example," he had announced to the gathered villagers. "One will be a lesson."
Sandra had fought when they took Carolyn, clawing and biting with a child's desperate fury. It had taken three grown men to hold her back. They had made her watch as they killed her sister—not quickly, not mercifully, but with deliberate cruelty designed to maximize the trauma for those forced to witness it. The message was clear: this is the cost of defiance.
That night, while her parents wept, eight-year-old Sandra had slipped away from their guarded home, taken her father's scalpel, and attempted to attack the warlord's compound alone. She had been caught, of course—a child with a doctor's blade against armed men—but her fearlessness had impressed the warlord enough that he had spared her life. More than spared it; he had offered her training, seeing in her rage the potential for something greater.
For nine years, she had learned from the warlord's personal guards, absorbing their techniques while nurturing her hatred in secret. When she finally killed them all, including the warlord, she had used their own methods against them. Seventeen years old and already more proficient than masters who had been practicing for decades. The warlord's lieutenant—the man who had selected Carolyn for death—was the last to die, held at the edge of life for hours as Sandra whispered in his ear, describing exactly what was happening to his body as she systematically destroyed it from within.
By twenty, she had earned a reputation that made even hardened killers step aside when she entered a room. The name "Lady Shiva" had begun as a whisper in underground fighting circuits where she tested her skills against anyone willing to face her. Few survived those encounters. None emerged unbroken.
She completed her morning ritual with a final sequence of strikes so swift they seemed to blur in the air. Most martial artists practiced these forms for centering, for discipline. For Shiva, they were merely keeping her lethal body properly tuned.
Moving to the suite's dining area, she poured herself a cup of green tea, savoring its subtle bitterness. The table before her displayed several carefully arranged items: a formal invitation to tonight's fundraiser, acquired through methods the original recipient would never dare report; architectural blueprints of the Gotham Royal Hotel, annotated with security positions and patrol patterns; and a medical file detailing Harvey Dent's physical specification, right down to allergies and past injuries.
The medical file had been particularly difficult to obtain—Dent kept his health records surprisingly secure for a public figure. It had required infiltrating Gotham General Hospital's records department under the guise of a visiting neurological specialist, a role Shiva had prepared for with characteristic thoroughness, spending three weeks studying advanced brain imaging techniques until she could discuss them fluently with actual medical professionals.
The effort had been worthwhile. The file revealed Dent's migraines—a vulnerability he kept hidden from public knowledge. More importantly, it detailed the specific symptoms and triggers, information that would make tonight's assignment not merely successful but virtually undetectable as an assassination.
Next to these lay a simple black garment bag containing an elegant evening gown. Killing Dent would be trivial—she had identified seventeen different methods that would succeed with near-perfect certainty. The challenge was executing the assassination under Batman's watch while leaving no evidence of her presence.
Batman. The name stirred something rare in Shiva's methodical mind—genuine curiosity.
She had observed him from afar three nights ago, when he'd interrupted Copperhead's attempt on Judge Hargrove's life. His technique was fascinating—a seamless blend of disciplines that shouldn't work together but somehow did. League of Shadows foundation, certainly, but modified with elements of Aikido, Silat, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and several obscure fighting styles she recognized from her own global training.
What had caught her attention more than Batman himself was the brief glimpse of his young accomplice—a child in a simple blue costume who had moved with remarkable acrobatic precision. The combination had been enough to neutralize Copperhead, whose reliance on toxins made her formidable but predictable. Though initially reported captured, Copperhead had apparently escaped during last night's GCPD collapse—another example of the chaos plaguing Gotham this week.
The Batman moved like someone who had compressed decades of martial study into a fraction of the normal timeframe. Impressive, but ultimately limited by his moral constraints. The reluctance to kill created inefficiencies in his technique, hesitations that a true master would exploit.
Shiva had seen countless fighters throughout her career, from untrained street brawlers to supposed grandmasters of ancient traditions. Few had captured her interest beyond the most clinical assessment of weaknesses to exploit. Batman was different. His approach suggested both exceptional training and intuitive understanding—a combination rare enough to merit observation.
Perhaps, if circumstances allowed, she would test him directly before departing Gotham. Not as part of her contract—professional ethics demanded clean fulfillment without unnecessary complications—but as a personal indulgence. It had been years since she had encountered an opponent who might provide even momentary challenge.
Shiva opened her laptop, reviewing footage from a hidden camera she'd placed near the District Attorney's office. The timestamp showed Rachel Dawes entering Harvey Dent's office, carrying what appeared to be lunch for two. The easy familiarity between them as he greeted her confirmed what Shiva had already deduced—their professional relationship had evolved into something personal, especially since Batman had rescued Dawes from Taskmaster's clutches.
"Predictable," Shiva murmured, closing the footage. Human attachment created vulnerability. It was why she had severed such weaknesses from her own life decades ago.
She had learned that lesson at sixteen, during her training with Master Otomo in Japan. He had been the closest thing to a father figure since her parents' deaths—a sensei who recognized her potential and pushed her beyond conventional limitations. For nearly a year, she had flourished under his instruction, advancing beyond students who had trained with him for decades.
Then came the test. Master Otomo had paired his students for mortal combat, a traditional if rarely implemented practice in his reclusive school. Sandra had been matched against Otomo's son, a skilled fighter three years her senior. She had defeated him easily, but refused to deliver the killing blow that tradition demanded.
That night, Master Otomo had come to her quarters. Without a word, he had attacked her with lethal intent. The battle destroyed half the dojo before Sandra finally understood—sentiment was weakness, attachment was vulnerability, mercy was failure. She left the compound at dawn, Master Otomo's broken body cooling on the training floor, his son's life spared but his father's taken in exchange. The lesson had been clear, if brutal: emotional connections were incompatible with the path she had chosen.
Her phone vibrated with a message from her employer:Confirmation required. Will Dent be neutralized tonight?
Shiva typed a single word reply:Yes.
She required no additional payment beyond the agreed sum, no reassurances or hand-holding. Lady Shiva accepted a contract and fulfilled it. Her reputation had been built on absolute reliability.
After sending the confirmation, she returned to her physical conditioning. The morning kata had merely been warm-up. Now began the specialized training directly relevant to tonight's operation.
She moved to the center of the suite's living area, closing her eyes as she visualized Harvey Dent's physical specifications from his medical file. Six feet tall, 185 pounds, athletic build maintained through regular boxing workouts. His cardiovascular system was strong but showed early signs of stress, likely from the campaign's demands. His migraine condition created specific physical vulnerabilities during onset—dilated blood vessels, altered neurotransmitter levels, temporary disruption of fine motor control.
Shiva began a precisely targeted set of striking drills, her hands moving with blur-like speed to exact positions in the air where Dent's vital points would be. Each strike calibrated to the specific force required for a man of his size and condition, adjusted for the altered state his migraine would induce. A tap to the vagus nerve cluster that would appear to observers as nothing more than a supportive touch to a man experiencing sudden illness, yet would trigger immediate cardiac arrest.
The practice continued for exactly forty-five minutes, each repetition identical to the previous, creating neural pathways so deeply ingrained that the actual execution tonight would require no conscious thought. Muscle memory so perfect that even under stress, distraction, or unexpected conditions, her body would perform precisely as trained.
Next came mental preparation—thirty minutes of focused meditation while maintaining a physically demanding stance, knees bent at exactly ninety degrees, arms extended horizontally. The position would cause most trained athletes to tremble within minutes. Shiva held it without wavering, her breathing controlled, her mind cycling through every contingency, every potential complication, every minute detail of tonight's operation.
Returning to the window, she observed the city with dispassionate interest. Gotham was unlike other urban centers she'd operated in—a strange amalgamation of architectural styles spanning centuries, Gothic spires rising alongside ultramodern glass towers, creating shadows that seemed to possess almost tangible weight.
A perfect hunting ground for someone who called himself Batman.
The thought brought forth memories she rarely indulged—her time with the League of Shadows. Ra's al Ghul had recognized her talent immediately, offering her a place among his elite guard despite her being an outsider. For three years, she had trained under his direct supervision, absorbing centuries of accumulated combat knowledge, pushing her already formidable skills to heights few living humans could comprehend.
The League had provided structure when she had been at risk of losing purpose. After years of hunting down those responsible for her sister's death, she had found herself at a crossroads—vengeance complete but the void it left unfilled. Ra's had offered not merely employment but philosophy, a framework that transformed killing from personal vendetta to global cleansing.
For a time, she had embraced the League's vision of necessary culling to restore balance. Their methods aligned with her own clinical approach to elimination, and their resources allowed her to refine her skills against opponents worthy of her attention. Within a year, she had risen to a position directly beneath Ra's himself, her reputation within the organization approaching mythic status after she singlehandedly eliminated a rival faction that had plagued the League for decades.
Then came the American—the detective, as Ra's called him. Bruce Wayne.
Shiva's lips thinned at the memory. She had observed him during training, noted his exceptional aptitude and determination. Ra's had taken a personal interest in Wayne unlike any student before him. It was clear why Wayne was everything Ra's had sought in an heir. Not just skill, but intellect, wealth, and a man who could carry forward his legacy in ways his daughters never could, despite their talents. Ra's had two daughters Talia and Nyssa yet it was obvious he'd always wanted a son.
The dynamic had shifted the entire compound. Talia, always the favored daughter, had barely concealed her interest in the American. Their training sessions often extended beyond necessity, their quiet conversations in the monastery garden not as private as they believed. What had begun as assessment had evolved into something deeper, something that had unsettled even the most hardened League members.
Wayne had demonstrated a fundamental weakness during his final test—ordered to execute a prisoner, he had refused. Not from fear or incapacity, but from moral objection. This reluctance was incomprehensible to Shiva. Death was simply an outcome, neither inherently meaningful nor meaningless, to be delivered when circumstances required it. Wayne's hesitation marked him as eternally limited, regardless of his physical capabilities or tactical acumen.
Yet Ra's had not discarded him as he had others who failed. He had fought Wayne himself—an honor rarely bestowed—and when Wayne refused to yield, something like respect had flickered in Ra's ancient eyes. Even in defeat, Wayne had been offered continued tutelage, a place within the inner circle. An opportunity Shiva herself had spent years earning through blood and absolute loyalty.
She had left the League shortly after, not from jealousy as some might have whispered, but from recognition that her path lay elsewhere. She had already absorbed what the League could teach her. The rest of her journey would be self-directed.
Her departure had been amicable, insofar as anything within the League could be described as such. Ra's had understood her decision, even respected it. Their paths had crossed occasionally in the years since, each acknowledging the other's capabilities without needing to test them directly.
Now, years later, she found herself in the city protected by Ra's former student and watching Batman's movements through Gotham's shadows, she recognized the distinctive fighting style, the tactical approach, the technologies employed. The man beneath the mask was undoubtedly Bruce Wayne. The League's training was evident in every fluid movement, every calculated strike. Wayne had become something different from what Ra's had envisioned, yet no less formidable.
Harvey Dent would die tonight, regardless of who stood in her way.
Shiva opened a secure messaging app on her phone, reviewing the latest intelligence from her network of informants. Dent's security had been increased following the attacks on his colleagues, but the protection was focused on conventional threats—guns, bombs, poisons. They weren't prepared for someone like her.
No one ever was.
Her research had revealed that Dent suffered from occasional migraines—a neurological vulnerability he kept private to avoid appearing weak during his campaign. The condition manifested with specific symptoms: heightened sensitivity to light, nausea, and most usefully, momentary disorientation during the aura phase that preceded the pain.
A precise strike to the vagus nerve cluster during this vulnerable state would cause instantaneous cardiac arrest, leaving no external marks. Medical examiners would attribute his death to natural causes—a tragic case of undiagnosed cardiac arrhythmia.
All she needed was to identify the onset of symptoms, isolate him briefly, and deliver the strike. Fifteen seconds, start to finish. The timing would be measured in heartbeats—Dent's final ones.
But first, she needed to ensure the migraine occurred on schedule.
From her luggage, she retrieved a small device resembling a high-end smartphone. The prototype had been developed by a neurological research lab in Singapore, designed to emit specific sound frequencies below the threshold of conscious human hearing. For most people, the emissions caused mild discomfort at worst. For someone with Dent's particular neurological sensitivity, it would reliably trigger a migraine within forty-five minutes of exposure.
Shiva placed the device in a sleek evening clutch that matched her gown for tonight's fundraiser. Simple. Elegant. Lethal.
Her phone vibrated again—another message, this one from an unexpected source.
The Demon's Daughter is in Gotham. Proceed with caution.
Shiva paused, considering the implications. Talia al Ghul's presence complicated matters. Unlike her father, who operated with cold strategic calculation, Talia was unpredictable—driven by emotions she disguised as reason. If she was in Gotham, it likely involved Batman.
The romantic attachment between Talia and Wayne had been obvious during his time with the League, though both had tried to conceal it. Shiva had recognized the signs—the lingering glances, the unnecessarily extended sparring sessions, the midnight conversations on the compound's periphery.
Such entanglements were foreign to Shiva herself. Physical needs were simply biological imperatives to be efficiently addressed when necessary. Emotional attachment was a weakness she had excised from her potential long ago, alongside mercy and hesitation.
She typed a brief acknowledgment, then set the phone aside. Talia's presence was an additional variable but not one that would affect the outcome. The contract remained clear—Harvey Dent must die before he could testify against Carmine Falcone.
Shiva moved to another window, this one offering a view of the old legal district where the Gotham City Police Department headquarters had stood until yesterday. Now it was merely a pile of rubble—Bane's dramatic failure preserved in twisted steel and pulverized concrete.
The past week had been a parade of excess and spectacle. Deathstroke's bloody work at the circus. Taskmaster's abduction of Rachel Dawes. Deadshot's long-range assassination. Kraven's hunting expedition through Gotham Park. Copperhead's toxin-based attack and subsequent capture by Talia and Batman's blue-clad young assistant. And finally, Bane's brute-force assault on GCPD.
All relied on external factors—weapons, poisons, technology, brute strength. All created disturbances that Batman had detected and countered, with varying degrees of success.
Shiva's approach would be different. She wouldn't create waves—she would pass through Gotham's elite gathering like a ghost, visible to all yet seen by none. The perfect assassination left witnesses genuinely believing they had observed nothing unusual. Dent would simply collapse, a tragic medical emergency during a stressful campaign event.
By the time Batman realized what had happened, she would be gone—another nameless, forgettable face in the crowd of Gotham's wealthy and powerful.
Moving to her suitcase, she retrieved a small wooden box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Inside lay an antique hairpin crafted from polished bone—a gift from a Chinese warlord whose ancestor's assassination she had arranged years ago. The man had never discovered her role in his family's downfall; instead, he had been captivated by her cover identity as a visiting cultural attaché.
Such was the nature of true mastery—being precisely what others expected to see while remaining completely invisible.
The hairpin would complete her ensemble for tonight. Not as a weapon—she needed none beyond her own body—but as a reminder of principles that had guided her since childhood. Appear harmless. Reveal nothing. Strike once, with absolute commitment.
Shiva set the hairpin aside and turned her attention to the dossier on Dent once more.
Nothing that would pose any challenge to someone of her capabilities.
More interesting was his psychological profile. Harvey Dent projected an image of incorruptible virtue, Gotham's "White Knight" standing against the city's entrenched corruption. But beneath that carefully maintained façade lay something darker—a capacity for rage he kept tightly controlled, occasional mood swings that his close associates attributed to work stress.
Such inner conflict created exploitable vulnerabilities. Should the opportunity present itself, targeting those psychological pressure points could create additional distractions, further masking her true purpose.
Shiva's research had revealed another intriguing detail: Dent had been carrying a two-headed coin, a gift from his father. The object held sentimental value beyond its monetary worth, serving as a touchstone during moments of stress or decision-making. He frequently reached for it unconsciously when under pressure.
A potential tell she could use to identify when his migraine symptoms began.
Her preparations continued with mechanical precision through the afternoon. Every detail received appropriate consideration, from the subtle application of makeup designed to make her features simultaneously attractive yet forgettable, to the careful selection of jewelry elegant enough for the occasion while allowing complete freedom of movement.
At precisely 5:30 PM, she received confirmation that her alternate identity—Caroline Wei, investment banker from Coast City—had been added to the fundraiser's guest list. The digital invitation appeared on her phone, complete with QR code for automated verification upon arrival.
Harvey Dent's campaign manager had been remarkably accommodating after receiving a last-minute donation of fifty thousand dollars from Ms. Wei's offshore account. Money opened doors that would otherwise remain closed—a universal constant Shiva had exploited throughout her career.
As evening approached, she dressed with the same focused attention she brought to every aspect of her work. The evening gown—midnight blue silk that complemented her coloring while allowing optimal range of motion—settled against her body like a second skin. No one observing her would suspect the garment had been subtly modified to enable the execution of any fighting technique in her extensive repertoire.
She secured the bone hairpin with practiced efficiency, the ancient material cool against her scalp as she arranged her hair in an elegant updo. To complete the illusion of harmless sophistication, she applied a shade of lipstick carefully selected to draw attention to her smile rather than her eyes—where a trained observer might detect the predatory awareness that never fully disappeared.
Looking into the mirror, Sandra Wu-San had vanished completely. In her place stood Caroline Wei—confident, wealthy, utterly forgettable once out of sight. The perfect cover for Lady Shiva.
At 7:15 PM, she left the suite, the clutch containing the migraine-inducing device held casually at her side. The evening's schedule unfolded in her mind with perfect clarity: arrive at 7:45, establish presence among the crowd, activate the device during Dent's scheduled speech at 8:30, observe for symptoms, isolate target when vulnerability manifests, execute, depart during ensuing confusion.
Simple. Elegant. Final.
The elevator descended smoothly, its mirrored interior offering multiple angles for a final inspection of her appearance. Nothing about her suggested danger or capability. She was merely another wealthy donor, entirely forgettable in a room full of Gotham's elite.
In the hotel lobby, she nodded politely to the doorman who summoned a taxi with practiced efficiency. "Gotham Royal Hotel," she instructed the driver, her voice carrying the precise accent appropriate for an educated professional from Coast City.
As the taxi merged into Gotham's evening traffic, Shiva maintained her character while simultaneously cataloging potential complications. Police presence had increased throughout the city following the destruction of GCPD headquarters, with additional patrols visible at major intersections. The Bat-signal remained dark against the clouded sky, indicating Batman was either otherwise engaged or operating covertly.
Most likely the latter. After six failed assassination attempts on people connected to the Falcone case, Batman would be anticipating further action. He would be present at tonight's fundraiser, either as the vigilante or in his civilian identity.
The thought brought a rare smile to Shiva's lips. Facing Batman would be a unique challenge—testing her skills against someone trained by the same masters yet walking a fundamentally different path. Should their confrontation occur, it would be fascinating to discover whether his moral constraints would prove fatal when faced with an opponent who shared his technical proficiency but none of his hesitation.
Through the taxi window, Gotham displayed itself in all its contradictory glory—opulent architecture alongside desperate poverty, technological marvels bordering districts where resources hadn't been updated in decades. A city of extremes that somehow maintained an uneasy equilibrium.
Much like the man who had appointed himself its protector—balanced between disciplined control and barely contained rage, technological sophistication and primal intimidation, justice and vengeance.
Batman was, in many ways, the perfect distillation of Gotham itself. Which made him predictable to someone who truly understood the city's nature.
The taxi approached the Gotham Royal Hotel, its ornate façade illuminated by carefully positioned spotlights. A line of limousines deposited elegantly dressed attendees beneath the grand portico, where uniformed staff directed them toward the main ballroom. Security personnel maintained discreet positions throughout the arrival area, their eyes constantly scanning for potential threats.
Shiva paid the driver, including a generous tip appropriate to her cover identity. As she emerged from the vehicle, she allowed her posture to shift subtly—shoulders relaxing into the slight curve expected of a professional woman at a social function rather than the perfect alignment she maintained during combat. Her stride shortened to match the constraints of her gown, hands held loosely at her sides in a display of casual confidence.
Caroline Wei approached the hotel entrance, entirely unremarkable among the crowd of Gotham's wealthy and powerful. No one who observed her would remember anything beyond a vague impression of elegance and poise. Certainly, no one would connect this perfectly ordinary investment banker to the six failed assassination attempts that had rocked Gotham over the past week.
Lady Shiva had arrived, invisible in plain sight, to complete what her competitors had failed to accomplish. By midnight, Harvey Dent would be dead, the final significant witness against Carmine Falcone silenced, the contract fulfilled.
And if Batman intervened?
Then she would finally discover whether the detective had truly learned what the League of Shadows had to teach, or if Ra's al Ghul's mysterious American student still lacked the essential quality that separated warriors from killers—the absolute commitment to victory, regardless of cost.
Either way, Shiva would complete her mission. She always did.
As she passed through the hotel's security checkpoint, Caroline Wei smiled politely at the guard who scanned her invitation. The device in her clutch registered as nothing more than an expensive smartphone, its true purpose undetectable by conventional means.
Ahead, the ballroom doors stood open, voices and orchestral music spilling into the grand foyer. Several photographers documented the arrivals of Gotham's elite, flashbulbs capturing expressions of practiced charm and wealth.
Caroline Wei moved past them without attracting attention, a shadow passing through light, present yet unseen. In forty-seven minutes, Harvey Dent would begin experiencing the early symptoms of a migraine. In approximately seventy-three minutes, he would be dead.
And Lady Shiva would have proven, once again, why she was considered the deadliest assassin in the world.
Not through technology or chemical enhancement or supernatural ability, but through perfect, merciless efficiency.
She entered the ballroom, scanning for her target while maintaining the appropriate expression of polite interest. Harvey Dent stood near the center of the room, Rachel Dawes at his side, both laughing at something Mayor Garcia had said.
Dent looked confident, charismatic, entirely unaware that his life could now be measured in minutes rather than years. Such was the nature of true power—the ability to end a life without the victim ever comprehending their vulnerability.
Caroline Wei accepted a champagne flute from a passing waiter, sipping delicately while observing the room's security pattern. Two plainclothes officers near Dent, uniformed personnel at each exit, private security hired for the event stationed around the perimeter.
And somewhere, watching from shadows she had yet to identify, Batman. Waiting. Anticipating.
Perfect. Let him watch. By the time he realized what was happening, it would already be too late.