Alfred didn't go home. He went to Harland's safe house.

It was disguised as a tailor's shop—an old hole-in-the-wall with dusty mannequins wearing suits from 1932. The bell above the door jingled faintly.

A man behind the counter looked up, recognized Alfred, and pressed a button under the register. A door in the back clicked open.

Inside, Harland waited at a metal table littered with files, blueprints, a half-finished cup of tea, and several weapons that had never seen public manufacture.

Thomas sat across from him, rubbing his temples like a man who'd lived through too many briefings and not enough sleep.

Martha paced behind them, jacket off, sleeves rolled, hair fraying from its bun. She muttered to herself as she flipped through documents, each page turning with sharper annoyance.

She was the first to look up.

"Well?" she asked.

Alfred shut the door. "They're movin' somethin'. Canisters. Cold-storage. Reinforced casings."

Harland straightened, eyes sharpened. "Stormcloud."

Thomas exhaled. "So, it's real."

"You doubted it?" Alfred asked.

"I hoped it was exaggerated," Thomas said. "Or metaphorical. The Ravens love dramatic language."

"This wasn't a metaphor," Alfred said. "Whatever's in those canisters, they don't want a scratch on 'em."

Martha slapped the file she was holding onto the table. "We've cross-referenced shipments," she said. "Chemicals. Aeration agents. Oxidizers. Bought through shell companies owned by—"

"L&L Holdings," Alfred finished.

Thomas nodded grimly. "Luthor."

Alfred frowned. "Why's an American weapons tycoon funding fascists in a country he doesn't even live in?"

Harland answered without looking up. "Testing ground. If something goes wrong here, it doesn't touch his soil."

"And if it goes right," Martha added, "he can replicate it anywhere."

A slow dread crawled through Alfred's gut. "Stormcloud," he murmured. "What is it?"

"That's the question," Thomas said. "Gas? Viral dispersal? A control agent? We don't know."

"But we know where some of it is," Martha said. "And we can stop it."

Harland shook his head. "Not yet."

Martha glared at him. "Excuse me?"

"We don't know enough," Harland said. "If we take the warehouse now, we get a handful of canisters. They move the rest. Gaunt goes underground. Harwood accelerates everything. We lose the trail."

Thomas folded his hands. "He's right. We need clearer intel."

Martha paced again, frustration sparking off her like static. "This city is a coffin with a pulse. If they deploy whatever's in those canisters—"

Alfred cut in quietly. "People die."

Silence settled over the room. Martha met his eyes. Something softened in hers. "Alfred," she said, "you saw it up close. You know what they're capable of. If we don't act—"

"I didn't say don't act," Alfred said. "Just sayin' there's no point runnin' blind into a room with a bomb if you don't know which wire to cut."

Harland nodded, approving.

Thomas exhaled. "We keep watching Gaunt. We trace the shipments. We find the core facility—the real source."

Martha didn't argue. Not because she agreed, but because she saw the trap. If they moved too soon, Stormcloud would vanish. And come back twice as deadly.

Alfred looked at the maps, the files, the weapons humming faintly beneath the table light.

"You're all in deep," he said.

Thomas shrugged. "Deeper than we meant to be."

"And Luthor?" Alfred pressed. "How deep is he?"

Harland exchanged a glance with Thomas before answering. "Luthor doesn't get his hands dirty," Harland said. "He pays other people to dig graves."

A chill traced Alfred's spine. "Then let's not become one," he said.

Martha cracked a thin smile. "Listen to you. Already talking like a spy."

"Don't insult me," Alfred replied.

But something in him shifted—quiet, decisive. Watching Gaunt wasn't enough anymore.

He needed to know what Stormcloud really was. And he needed to know fast.