The next time he saw Thomas and Martha, they didn't try to soften the edges around him.

They knew better now.

He walked into the safe house bruised in ways that had nothing to do with training exercises. Harland glanced up, took in the damage with a soldier's quick scan, and then returned to his files. Martha was at the map wall, pinning another Raven-connected warehouse in red. Thomas stood by the window, looking out at a city that had just eaten one more of its own.

Martha turned first.

"You found the killer," she said.

Not a question — a confirmation.

"Bet Sykes," Alfred said. "She's real proud of her work."

Harland's jaw tightened. "Contract killer. Raven-adjacent. They bring her in when they want clean deaths and dirty hands. She hit a No Name League cell for Harwood last month. Left a calling card. She likes making her presence known."

"Then why is she still breathin'?" Alfred asked.

"Because she's useful," Harland replied. "And because she hasn't crossed the Ravens enough to make them clean their own mess. Yet."

Alfred's stare sharpened. "You think I give a toss about her value?"

Martha cut in before Harland could escalate. "Alfred, you want her dead. I want her dead. Harland might even admit he wants her dead if you catch him after a drink. But right now? She's not the biggest threat in the room."

Alfred gave a short, humorless bark of laughter. "Bigger than a psychopath who kills for fun?"

"Stormcloud," Martha said.

The word settled across the room like ash.

Thomas finally turned away from the window.

"Harwood is preparing a demonstration," he said. "Something that will terrify Parliament into surrender. They're choosing a district — dense population, symbolic, visible."

"London's got plenty of those," Alfred muttered.

Martha nodded. "Exactly. We know they have canisters. We know L&L money paid for components. What we don't know is how complete the weapon is or what they'll use to deliver it."

Harland added, "We do know this: they'll use assets like Sykes to clear obstacles. Anyone who stumbles too close gets removed, and it never touches the upper ranks."

Alfred's voice cooled down. "This Luthor — he sits in his skyscraper countin' profits while people like Esme die, so he can test his toys. You ever plan on doin' somethin' about him? Or is that a footnote for another file?"

Thomas's expression shifted — controlled, but something electric underneath.

"There's only so much we can touch from this side of the Atlantic," he said. "Lionel Luthor is... insulated. Layers of shell companies. Layers of deniable assets. If something traces back, he simply sheds the skin."

"Sounds like a man who expects to leave a long shadow," Alfred said.

"He does," Thomas replied. "He's building something he won't live to see the end of. The person who inherits his empire will inherit all the dangers that come with it."

Martha refocused them. "We don't need the man behind the money. We need the men holding the weapon."

Alfred pointed at the map — at all the red pins. "Every one of these is a maybe, yeah?"

Harland nodded. "Factories, labs, transport hubs. Most are decoys. Some are legitimate. One of them is where Stormcloud is being built."

Alfred inhaled slowly. "Then we find the heart."

Martha approached him. "Doing this means you stop standing in the middle. The Ravens will know you've chosen a side."

"They chose for me," Alfred said. "When they stepped into her room."

Silence settled — this time with weight and direction.

Harland slid a file toward him. "We start here. Warehouse in Wapping. Too much traffic. Too many middlemen. Too much money moving too quietly."

Thomas folded his arms. "We go together. Quiet. Quick. Clean."

"Fine," Alfred said. "But listen — I'll help with Stormcloud your way. Once. After that, Sykes is mine."

Martha nodded. "That's between you and her."

Harland added, quieter than usual, "I'll make sure she's reachable. Assuming we live long enough."

Rain tapped gently against the window behind Thomas.

Somewhere across the city: Gaunt was explaining his failure.

Harwood was polishing a speech meant to terrify a nation.

Bet Sykes was sharpening her knives and humming.

And Lionel Luthor — half a world away — was approving expenses without ever thinking about the bones underneath the profits.

In a cramped room above a tailor shop, four people bent over a map, trying to keep London breathing for one more week.

The war was shifting. But so was Alfred. Not by desire — but by consequence.

He didn't know it yet, but the steps he took tonight would echo decades later in a cave beneath Gotham, long after this chapter of smoke and blood had burned itself into myth.