The alley slowly returned to silence.
After a brief moment, Cassandra clapped her hands together lightly, as if dusting off something invisible, and walked back to Dean with her usual calm, unreadable expression.
Behind her, the scene told a completely different story.
Mikey lay sprawled across the cold ground, barely conscious. His eyes had rolled halfway back, and faint groans of pain escaped his lips with every shallow breath he took. His body looked twisted in ways that made it obvious—without needing to count—that several bones had been broken.
Dean didn't bother calculating the exact number.
He just knew one thing.
It was definitely more than the other three combined.
The remaining members of the so-called "Masked Gang" were in no better condition. They were either unconscious or too terrified to even move, their earlier arrogance completely crushed.
Cassandra, however, showed no emotion.
Despite her brutal efficiency, she had held back just enough. None of them were dead.
And that, in Gotham, already counted as mercy.
But none of that mattered now.
What mattered was that Cassandra had done two things perfectly—
She vented her anger.
And she cleared the path ahead.
Without hesitation, she raised her hands and began making quick gestures.
"If we go this way," she indicated, pointing deeper into the alleyway, "we'll reach Gotham General Hospital in less than half an hour."
Dean blinked.
Then blinked again.
"So… you weren't running this way because you heard someone was being bullied," he said slowly, "but because it's a shortcut?"
Cassandra nodded, completely serious.
Dean couldn't help but let out a quiet breath of disbelief.
"How is that even fair…"
He glanced around the alley, then back at Cassandra.
It was true—cutting through these back alleys would save a significant amount of time.
But when he first chose their route, he had deliberately avoided places like this.
Because Gotham's alleys weren't just dangerous.
They were unpredictable.
Strange people. Sudden violence. Hidden threats.
And more importantly—
Dean had assumed Cassandra was just a quiet, innocent girl.
How could he knowingly lead someone like that into such a place?
But now…
That assumption had been completely shattered.
With Cassandra's combat ability, she wasn't someone who needed protection.
If anything—
She was the danger.
"We should hurry," Cassandra gestured again, her movements quick but precise. "Gotham at night… gets worse. The later it is, the more dangerous it becomes. It'll be harder for you to go home safely."
Dean stared at her for a second.
Then chuckled softly.
He hadn't expected this.
Cassandra… was worried about him.
Before he could respond, she reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling him forward without hesitation.
Together, they walked straight through the middle of the defeated robbers, as if stepping over nothing more than discarded trash.
Not a single glance back.
Not a single moment of hesitation.
---
As they continued through the maze of narrow alleys, Cassandra suddenly slowed down.
She turned her head slightly, looking at Dean.
There was something unusual in her expression.
Hesitation.
It was subtle—but it was there.
As if she wasn't sure whether she should say what she was thinking.
Dean noticed immediately.
"What is it?" he asked.
Cassandra paused.
Then, after a brief moment of consideration—
She decided to speak.
"The stone you threw earlier…" she gestured carefully, "…the force was off."
Dean raised an eyebrow.
"The force was off?"
Cassandra nodded.
"You knocked the gun out of his hand," she explained through gestures, "but you used too much strength. The motion wasn't efficient."
She paused, then continued.
"With the right technique, a small object like that can be thrown faster… farther… quieter… and with less effort."
Dean tilted his head slightly, intrigued.
"Oh?"
Cassandra looked around briefly, then bent down and casually picked up a small stone from the ground.
It was irregular in shape, about the size of a thumb.
Nothing special.
At least… at first glance.
She then pointed ahead.
Dean followed her gaze.
On the second floor of a nearby building, a green potted plant hung from a balcony. One of its branches extended outward, thin and fragile.
"About thirty meters," Dean estimated aloud.
He crossed his arms, thinking.
"If it were me… I could probably hit it. Might take a bit of force, though."
Cassandra didn't respond.
Instead—
She acted.
She pinched the stone between two fingers.
Her arm bent into a strange, unfamiliar angle—completely different from how an ordinary person would throw.
Even her wrist positioning looked unnatural.
For a split second, everything went still.
Then—
Snap!
Her arm moved.
It was so fast that Dean's eyes barely registered it.
It was like watching a compressed spring suddenly release all its energy in an instant.
And yet—
Strangely—
The movement looked effortless.
As if she hadn't used any strength at all.
The next moment—
The stone disappeared.
No sound.
No visible trajectory.
Nothing.
Then—
Almost at the exact same instant—
The branch snapped.
It fell cleanly from the balcony.
Dean's eyes widened.
He hadn't even seen the stone travel through the air.
He hadn't heard a thing.
It was as if—
Cause and effect had happened at the same time.
"That…" Dean muttered under his breath.
"…that's not normal."
His mind raced.
The speed.
The precision.
The complete lack of wasted motion.
It defied everything he understood about throwing.
For a brief moment, a ridiculous thought crossed his mind—
"Is this some kind of legendary finger-flicking technique?"
Before he could process further, Cassandra extended her hand toward him.
"Give me your hand."
Dean didn't hesitate.
Something about what he had just witnessed—
It stirred something inside him.
Curiosity.
Excitement.
Possibility.
He immediately raised his right hand.
Cassandra stepped closer and began adjusting his posture.
She guided his arm, repositioning it into the same unusual angle she had used.
Her movements were precise.
Efficient.
Every adjustment had a purpose.
Dean let her guide him, but he couldn't help asking—
"Didn't you say we should hurry to see Barbara?" he said. "Is this really the time to teach me something like this?"
He glanced at the balcony again.
"That technique… it doesn't look like something you can learn in a day or two."
Cassandra shook her head slightly.
"It's fine."
She gestured calmly.
"I've already 'seen' your body. Your foundation is better than you think."
Dean froze.
"…What do you mean you've 'seen' my body?"
Cassandra ignored the question completely.
Instead, she stepped back and began pointing at different parts of his body—
His shoulder.
His elbow.
His wrist.
His fingers.
She showed him where to apply force.
Where to relax.
Where to control tension.
And most importantly—
Where not to waste energy.
"Simple technique," she indicated. "Just correct force application."
She paused, then added—
"You can learn it… in five minutes."
Dean blinked.
Five minutes?
That sounded insane.
But after what he had just witnessed—
He decided to trust her.
---
Five minutes later.
Dean stood still, staring at the balcony ahead.
Another branch… fell.
This time—
He had done it.
A slow smile spread across his face.
It wasn't as clean.
Not as effortless.
Not as terrifyingly precise as Cassandra's.
But—
It worked.
He had grasped the core idea.
The feeling.
The control.
And more importantly—
The potential.
Dean flexed his fingers slightly, his mind already racing with possibilities.
If this technique could be applied to stones…
Then what about cards?
What about tools?
What about… weapons?
This wasn't just a trick.
It was a skill that could evolve.
"Cassandra," he said sincerely, turning to her, "thank you. This is… incredibly useful."
Cassandra gave a small smile and waved her hand casually.
"Think of it as repayment," she gestured.
"For teaching me how to read at the library."
Dean chuckled.
"Fair enough."
---
The two continued forward.
Through one alley.
Then another.
Then another.
More than a dozen narrow paths later—
The towering structure of Gotham General Hospital finally came into view.
But the journey hadn't been entirely peaceful.
Along the way—
They encountered two more robbery attempts.
Unlike Mikey and his group, these weren't amateurs.
They were real criminals.
Armed.
Aggressive.
Desperate.
But—
The result didn't change.
It never did.
Because Cassandra was there.
And when Cassandra moved—
There was no struggle.
No prolonged fight.
Only—
Instant, overwhelming resolution.
By the time they reached the hospital entrance, the night had grown deeper.
The city felt heavier.
Darker.
More alive in all the wrong ways.
Dean pushed open the door, and the sterile scent of antiseptic immediately replaced the chaos of Gotham's streets.
Together, he and Cassandra made their way inside, following the directions given by the librarian earlier.
Finally—
They arrived outside a private room.
Dean reached for the door.
Paused.
Then opened it.
Inside—
They weren't alone.
Two other visitors were already there.
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