The night after the Gallows Run bled into dawn like a wound that refused to close. Gotham's skyline glowed with smoke, pillars of fire rising from factories and tenements. The city's heartbeat was riot and fear.
Jonathan stood on the balcony of the derelict safehouse Crane had led them to, the cracked brick walls overlooking a soot-stained alley. He hadn't slept. The screams, the drums of the Court Below, and Abe's cold eyes beneath the mask haunted him with every blink.
Behind him, the others stirred in uneasy silence. Scrap curled up near the furnace, half-dozing but twitching at every distant shout. Isadora clung to Delilah, whispering soft reassurances that neither fully believed.
Crane moved like a shadow, pacing the length of the room, nursing cracked ribs but refusing rest.
Jonathan gripped the rusted railing until the iron bit his palms. For hours, the words turned in his chest like broken glass.
Finally, he spoke them aloud, though none could hear.
"I swore once… but I broke it."
He closed his eyes, recalling his father's study, the heavy oak desk, the leather-bound book of laws and histories. His father's hand had pressed firm against his shoulder as he recited the words of the Wayne Oath: To guard this city, to shield its people, to pay the debts of blood with service, not silence.
But Jonathan had fled from that oath, burying himself in shadows and grudges while the city rotted. He had let Abe slip into the waiting arms of Elijah Blackthorn.
He had failed Silas Boone, who burned for truths Jonathan should have defended. He had nearly lost Crane, Isadora, Scrap everyone who trusted him.
The oath was not just memory. It was demand.
Jonathan sank to one knee on the cracked balcony, head bowed. His voice, low and raw, carried into the dawn.
"I am Jonathan Wayne. By the blood that binds me, by the graves behind me, by the city that groans for justice I renew my oath. No mask, no debt, no brother's betrayal will silence me again. Gotham may burn, but I will stand."
A hush followed, deep as prayer. The city's din rumbled on, but for Jonathan, something shifted. The vow was a chain tightening around his soul heavy, unyielding, but necessary.
"Johnny?" Scrap's small voice cut through. He had woken and shuffled to the balcony, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "You talkin' to the bricks again?"
Jonathan almost smiled. "No, Scrap. To the city."
The boy leaned against the railing, peering out at the smoke. His grin was gap-toothed, but his voice trembled. "Well… city better be listenin', 'cause we're in the thick of it. Folks'll need more than words if the Owe keeps pullin' the strings."
"They'll have more," Jonathan promised. His tone was steel.
Crane appeared in the doorway, arms folded, grim but steady. "Then we plan. The Owe's not invincible, but they're patient. They're moving pieces Abe among them. We'll need allies, not just ideals."
Isadora joined, her shawl wrapped around Delilah like armor. Her eyes were red but sharp. "And we'll need truth. The Owe thrives on shadows. If the people see what they are rituals, murders, corruption they'll turn. Gotham's not so far gone as Elijah thinks."
Delilah, pale and trembling, whispered: "He… he said I was a coin. That every debt has its price, and I was just payment. If that's how they see people numbers on ledgers then they'll treat the whole city the same."
Jonathan turned to her, voice gentler than the oath had been. "They already do. That's why we fight."
A silence hung, heavy with unspoken fear. Then Scrap clapped his hands once, breaking it. "So what's step one, boss? We got a city to save. You got your fancy Wayne oath. Time to put it to work."
Jonathan stood. He felt the oath settle into his spine, straightening him. "Step one we stop running. No more hideouts, no more waiting for them to strike. We move first."
Crane's brow lifted. "And how, exactly, do you propose to strike an enemy that owns the streets, the sheriff, and half the Council?"
Jonathan looked past him to the battered table in the room. Upon it lay the ledgers Scrap had stolen the Owe's payments to factory barons, priests, politicians. Proof of rot. Proof of power.
"We burn their masks with their own ink," Jonathan said. "We drag their secrets into daylight."
Isadora's lips curved into a faint, dangerous smile. "Expose the debts that bind them."
"Expose, and break," Jonathan agreed.
The firelight caught his profile, and for the first time in weeks, Isadora saw not just a hunted man, but a leader. The Wayne Oath was no longer broken it was alive again.
Hours later, as the city stumbled through riot-stained streets, rumors spread like wildfire. Someone had nailed a ledger page to the courthouse doors.
Another page appeared at the cathedral steps. Names respected names were inked beside sums of money, debts owed to something called The Owe.
Jonathan watched from the shadows as crowds gathered, whispers turning to shouts. He hadn't dared show his face, not yet. But he didn't need to. The city had received its first spark.
"More will come," Crane murmured beside him.
Jonathan's hand tightened on the hilt of his knife. "More must."
Above them, the sky dimmed with smoke. But for the first time, Jonathan felt the dawn was worth fighting toward.
The oath burned in his chest, not as burden, but as compass.
And the city would soon learn what it meant for a Wayne to stand.