It’s a facial recognition hit from Blüdhaven. Traffic cam, three days ago. His voice is even, rehearsed. He taps a key, and the grainy image fills the screen. Algorithm gives it a 94% match.

Could be a coincidence. He’s leaning against a stalagmite, arms crossed. His tone is flat, deliberately detached. Plenty of guys look like him.

The probability is negligible. Damian doesn’t look away from the screen. His posture is rigid, analytical. The gait analysis from the preceding frames correlates with Drake’s known biometric data. Margin of error is 2.1%.

He finally turns. His face is unreadable in the monitor’s glow. Where?

A residential district. Quiet. Middle-of-nowhere suburb, technically in Blüdhaven’s county line. He was carrying groceries.

Groceries. A short, humorless laugh. He vanished off the face of the earth to buy milk.

We go in quiet. No uniforms. No signals. We observe, we confirm, and we assess. His eyes sweep over each of them. This is not a retrieval. This is reconnaissance.

What’s the play, B?

We surround the block. Discrete vehicles. I’ll take the front. Dick, you cover the back alley. Jason, east side fire escape. Damian, west side roof. He pauses, his gaze lingering on Tim’s face on the screen. We knock. And we see who answers.