Metropolis, Fifth Avenue, near the Havellin Slums.
Moira Adams, tall and composed despite her age, stepped out of the evening crowd with a practiced calm. Dressed in a tailored suit and dark sunglasses, she slipped into the back of a sleek black Bentley sedan waiting at the curb. She carried an umbrella, though no rain had touched the city yet.
"To the Havellin Slums," she instructed coolly.
Her driver—who doubled as a bodyguard—shifted in his seat. His voice was firm, though his tone betrayed unease. "Ma'am, your safety in the slums at night cannot be guaranteed. Especially now, during such a critical time."
Moira removed her sunglasses and fixed him with sharp, unflinching eyes. Over fifty, with an air of aristocratic confidence, she still carried herself like someone who expected the world to bend. "If the creatures hiding in the shadows make me afraid to leave my home, then they've already won. You know me, Mr. Andre—I don't get scared easily."
Andre tightened his grip on the wheel, but said nothing more.
Moira Adams was not simply another wealthy elite. She was the head of Metropolis's New Fly Energy Group, a rising powerhouse in renewable technology. The company's grip on the solar energy market was second only to WayneTech's experimental systems, and its recent partnership with Queen Consolidated of Star City made it a direct rival to LexCorp.
Her lips curled faintly. "I heard about Lionel Luthor's assassination. A coward's attack, meant to frighten the city. They want us to cower, to fold. But I am not Lionel Luthor—weak, arrogant, and blind. He fancied himself a Caesar, but his ability was far less than his ambition." She looked out the tinted window, disdain etched on her face. "And his son fares no better."
The Bentley glided down the avenue, shadowed by two identical cars carrying more of her guards. Their slow procession made an almost regal statement, even as the bright lights of Metropolis dimmed and the filth of the Havellin Slums came into view.
"As the richest and most vibrant city in the United States," Moira muttered, "Metropolis still manages to hide hell at its edges. Look at this place."
The streets narrowed. Trash overflowed from alleys. Electronics waste, rotting plastic, and PVC detritus carpeted the sidewalks. The air smelled of smoke, burnt wire, and decay. Moira wrinkled her nose.
"Here, people tread upon mountains of garbage. They don't live, they survive—picking through scraps like scavengers. Years of chemical exposure twist their bodies into monstrosities. Metropolis may shine, but its prosperity casts long shadows." She tapped the window with one manicured finger. "This place makes Gotham look civilized."
The Bentley slowed. Under a flickering streetlight, a man appeared. His face—if it could be called that—was a ruined mess of scars and deformities. Local whispers named him the Faceless Man. His features had been shredded by bullets long ago, worsened by years of eating contaminated food. His skeletal frame was warped, grotesque.
Andre's hands tightened on the wheel. Moira, however, barely flinched.
"This is why," she said firmly, "I've decided to clear the Havellin Slums entirely. We'll build a thermoelectric power plant here. A fresh future on the ashes of this filth. Tell me, Andre—if the slums disappear, does not hell itself vanish?"
Andre hesitated, unsure whether to agree.
Before he could answer, a shadow darted across the road.
Andre slammed the brakes.
The world cracked.
Glass shattered inward. A streak of silver light struck, and Andre's vision went white-hot with pain. Warmth spread across his neck. His hands slipped from the wheel as blood gushed, spraying across the dash.
He coughed, choking, eyes wide as he looked through the broken windshield.
Standing before the Bentley was a figure cloaked in black. An owl-shaped hood concealed his face, and the moonlight gleamed across his armor.
"Court of Owls," Andre rasped before his body gave out. His head slumped forward, lifeless.
In the back seat, Moira barely had time to gasp before a small device rolled through the shattered window. A hiss filled the car. Gray smoke poured in.
She coughed violently, clawing at the door handle. Her lungs burned, her throat seared. She stumbled out onto the filthy street, one hand clutching her chest, but the dizziness was overwhelming. The world tilted, her legs buckled, and she collapsed onto the pavement.
Around her, the other Bentleys screeched to a halt. Her bodyguards spilled out, weapons drawn. But they weren't ready for what waited.
Men and women in owl masks emerged from the shadows, moving with predatory speed. The Court's assassins struck silently, each motion efficient and merciless. The bodyguards fought, but they were already lost.
Coughing blood, Moira raised her head. The smoke cloud clung to her lungs, distorting her senses. Her vision twisted. Shapes warped. Reality itself seemed to ripple.
The Faceless Man—the scarred wretch she had seen earlier—was no longer cowering in the corner. Now, he loomed over her. His body elongated, his limbs grotesquely stretched. A sickly black light pulsed from him, like a human-shaped void tearing at the world's seams. His face, or what remained of it, melted and collapsed into itself again and again, a nightmare spiraling into oblivion.
"No… no!" Moira screamed, scrambling backward on hands and knees.
Her back struck something solid. She looked up.
Another figure stood above her—an Owl assassin cloaked in living shadow. His armor shimmered with unnatural light, waves of black energy rippling like water. His eyes glowed a furious orange-red, burning with the cold finality of a reaper.
Moira's scream caught in her throat. Her body convulsed once, then gave in. Consciousness fled, leaving only twitching fear behind.
---
Elsewhere, in the hidden chambers of the Court of Owls…
The Speaker sat at the head of a vast oak table, his voice calm but edged with triumph. Messengers had just delivered confirmation.
"Moira Adams has been eliminated," he announced.
The gathered council members—wealthy men and women masked in white owl porcelain—nodded.
"One less obstacle on our clearance list. The death knell tolls. Now, brothers and sisters, tell me—who shall be the next bird for the hunt?"
The chamber echoed as every voice replied in unison.
"Lex Luthor."
The Speaker leaned forward, his mask gleaming in the dim candlelight. "Lex Luthor, then. Tomorrow night, the Court's talons will close around him. He will not repeat the mistakes of his father."
A murmur of agreement circled the table.
"And one more matter," the Speaker continued, voice dropping to a grave whisper. "The Divine Punisher. The man who dares to provoke the Court. The one they call…" His words hissed through the air like venom. "…Homelander."
Tension filled the chamber. Even among the Court, the name carried weight.
The Speaker's eyes burned behind his mask. "We will find him. We will strip away his mask, his identity, his very soul. And when we do, we will unleash every weapon at our disposal. If it takes our trump card to destroy him, so be it."
The Court of Owls fell silent, each member contemplating the storm to come.
---