Chapter Text
Chapter One: A Body and a Bourbon
The Office Above Calder Street
Blüdhaven, 2:13 a.m.
The rain fell like it had a grudge.
Neon signs flickered across puddles that mirrored a city too tired to care. Inside a crooked little office above a pawn shop on Calder Street, Conner Gray leaned back in his chair, long legs crossed at the ankle, a glass of something amber and hard in one hand, and a file folder in the other.
The office was sparse—deliberately so. A desk that had seen better decades, a filing cabinet with a dent in the side, two mismatched chairs for clients who rarely showed up in person. On the wall, a license that read Conner Gray, Private Investigator in gold lettering that was starting to peel at the edges. Below it, a framed photograph: two men at what was clearly a wedding, one with silver hair and sharp eyes, the other younger with a warm smile. Both wore rings that caught the light.
Pa and Pops. The men who'd found him six years ago, blank-faced and fifteen-looking, fresh out of Cadmus with encyclopedic knowledge but no personality to speak of. They'd given him a home, a name that was his own, and space to figure out who Kr wanted to be when he wasn't a weapon.
Conner took a slow sip of bourbon—he didn't need it, couldn't even get drunk from it, but it was part of the tableau. The performance he'd spent two years perfecting.
His accent, slow and syrupy as the bourbon he was pretending to savor, drawled across the empty room as he read aloud.
"Miss Celia Fairweather, age 29, missing for one week. Reported last seen leavin' a biotech gala at the Spire Hotel, where her darlin' husband was acceptin' a research grant for 'innovative neural interface development.'" He clicked his tongue. "Fancy words, big money, a little too much perfume and not nearly enough morality—Blüdhaven in a nutshell, I do believe."
He set down the glass with deliberate care and flipped through the file. His client—one Ms. Frost, who'd arrived in his office three days prior with the kind of poise that suggested she was used to being the most dangerous person in any room—had provided surprisingly thorough documentation. Photographs of Celia: brunette, pretty in an understated way, smile that didn't quite reach her eyes in any of the pictures. Background on the husband: Dr. Marcus Fairweather, biotech researcher, multiple patents, consulting contracts with half a dozen shell companies.
And there, buried in the financial records Ms. Frost had somehow acquired, a name that made something in Kon's borrowed memories ping with recognition.
Holt Biodyne.
Not LexCorp. Not even WayneTech. But the digital fingerprints were there if you knew how to look—DARPA funding streams, classified project codes, the kind of corporate structure designed to obscure rather than illuminate.
Conner closed the file and stood, reaching for the hat Pops had insisted completed the aesthetic. He caught his reflection in the rain-streaked window. Twenty-one, maybe twenty-two, people guessed. The official paperwork Pops had arranged through his contacts said twenty-eight, which gave him enough professional credibility that clients didn't balk at hiring someone who looked young for the job.
Six years. Six years since Pa and Pops had found him, taught him how to be a person instead of a project. Two years since he'd hung out his shingle and started building a reputation as Conner Gray, PI—distinct from Benoit Blanc's celebrated career, thank you very much. The similar mannerisms earned him the occasional raised eyebrow, but the different surname kept most people from making the connection.
Kr preferred it that way. Pa's legacy was Pa's. Conner Gray would make his own name.
"Well then, Mr. Gray," he said to his reflection, trying out the smile Pa wore when he was about to pull a thread and unravel an entire tapestry of lies. "Let's see what manner of unpleasantness this fine city has served up for us tonight."
The Scene of the Crime
Waterfront Industrial District, 3:47 a.m.
The body had been found in a half-collapsed warehouse scheduled for demolition. Not the kind of place that saw much foot traffic, which made the anonymous tip that had brought the police here all the more interesting.
Conner arrived to find the scene already lit up with portable floods, crime scene tape fluttering in the wind off the water. Two patrol cars, one unmarked sedan, and a small cluster of officers trying to look busy while staying as far from the actual body as possible.
And there, crouched beside what was left of Celia Fairweather, was Detective Dick Grayson.
Kon had done his research, naturally. Richard John Grayson, age 28, Blüdhaven PD for seven years, detective shield for four. Before that, Gotham—beat cop straight out of the academy, though he'd left under circumstances notably absent from public record. Athletic build, moved with the kind of reflexes that suggested either extensive martial arts training or something more acrobatic. Someone who knew exactly where his body was in space at all times.
He also moved like someone who didn't sleep enough, which in Blüdhaven probably meant he was one of the good ones.
Grayson looked up as Conner ducked under the crime scene tape, and his expression did something complicated. Not quite suspicion, not quite curiosity. Something in between.
"You the PI?" His voice was rough from either smoke or exhaustion, possibly both.
Conner tipped his hat—an unnecessary accessory, but it played into the image. The movement was pure Pa, down to the slight flourish of his wrist. "Conner Gray, sir. And you must be the beat-walkin', justice-chasin', sleepless guardian of this fine and troubled city."
Grayson blinked, then gave a small, involuntary laugh that sounded surprised to escape. "That's… a new one."
"I've been called worse, I assure you." Conner stepped closer, movements unhurried, non-threatening. Two years of working with cops had taught him they got twitchy around PIs. "But let's get to brass tacks, sugar. You got a body, I got a name that might match. Seems to me we could benefit from a little professional collaboration."
"Sugar?" One of Grayson's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline.
"Only when I'm breathin'," Conner replied, flashing a smile that was more calculated geometry than genuine charm.
For a moment, Grayson just looked at him—really looked, in a way that made Kon's threat assessment systems catalog exits and potential weapons. Then the detective's expression softened slightly, and he shook his head with something that might have been amusement.
"You always talk like this?"
"I find it helps put folks at ease. Or at least gives 'em somethin' to focus on besides the unpleasantness at hand." Conner gestured toward the body with his chin. "Is that Miss Celia Fairweather?"
Grayson's jaw tightened. "Can't confirm identity until—"
"Of course, of course. Official channels and all that." Conner pulled out a small notebook, flipping it open to a sketch he'd made from the photographs. "But perhaps you could tell me if this lovely lady bears any resemblance?"
The detective took the notebook, studied the sketch. His poker face was good, but not perfect. The slight widening of his eyes confirmed it.
"When did you get hired on this?"
"Three days ago. Client was concerned when Miss Fairweather failed to return from what was supposed to be a brief trip to attend her husband's moment of academic glory." Conner retrieved his notebook, tucking it back into his coat. "I don't suppose you'd let a humble private citizen take a gander at the scene? Purely observational, you understand. I won't touch a thing."
Grayson studied him for a long moment, and Kon could almost see the calculations happening behind those sharp blue eyes. Whatever assessment he made, he sighed and stepped aside slightly.
"Don't touch anything. Don't contaminate the scene. And if you throw up, do it outside the tape line."
"Sir, you wound me. I have a stomach of iron and a disposition of marble." Conner moved past him, finally allowing himself to look directly at what remained of Celia Fairweather.
It was bad. Not as bad as some things he'd seen in the Cadmus data files, but bad enough. She was laid out almost peacefully, hands folded across her chest, still wearing the evening gown from the gala. No visible trauma, no signs of struggle.
But Kon's eyes—Kryptonian eyes that could see in spectrums humans couldn't even name—told a different story.
The blood pooled beneath her wasn't quite the right color in the infrared. Trace amounts of metallic particulates, nanoscale structures that had already begun to break down but left a signature like oil on water. And there, just visible at the base of her skull where her hair had been pulled back—a small puncture wound, precise and circular.
Neural jack insertion point. He'd seen similar wounds in Cadmus's experimental logs.
"She looks peaceful," Grayson said quietly from behind him. "Like she just laid down and went to sleep."
"Mmm." Conner crouched down, not touching, just observing. The positioning was too precise. Someone had arranged her like this after death. "And yet we're in an abandoned warehouse at four in the mornin', which suggests Miss Fairweather's eternal rest wasn't quite as voluntary as the staging might imply."
"You got a theory already?"
"I got about seventeen theories, Detective, each more convoluted than the last." Conner stood, brushing imaginary dust from his knees. "But theories without evidence are just fancy storytellin'. What I got is questions. Such as: who called this in?"
"Anonymous tip. Payphone three blocks from here."
"Payphone. How delightfully anachronistic." Conner turned slowly, taking in the warehouse—collapsed sections of roof, graffiti on walls, disturbed dust patterns suggesting recent but careful occupation. "And I don't suppose your forensic colleagues have found any convenient evidence? Footprints, perhaps? Fibers from the killer's distinctive wool coat?"
"Scene's too clean." Grayson's voice had gone flat, professional. "No prints, no fibers, no DNA besides the victim's. Like someone sanitized the whole place."
"Or knew exactly how to avoid leavin' traces in the first place." Conner pulled out his notebook again, sketching the scene with quick, precise strokes. Another Pa habit—he'd claimed it helped him think, and Kon had found it useful for appearing harmlessly occupied while his actual senses gathered data the humans around him couldn't access.
The faint ozone smell of high-frequency electromagnetic equipment, recently used and hastily removed.
"You're not from around here," Grayson said suddenly.
Conner looked up from his notebook. "What gave me away? The accent or the general air of not belongin' in this fine establishment?"
"The accent's laying it on pretty thick, yeah." There was something careful in Grayson's tone now, measuring. "But mostly it's... you don't move like someone from Blüdhaven. Or Gotham, for that matter."
"And how does someone from Blüdhaven move, precisely?"
"Carefully. Like they're always expecting something to go wrong." Grayson tilted his head slightly. "You move like... I don't know. Like you're very aware of exactly where you are in space. Trained, maybe. Martial arts or gymnastics or something."
Kon felt a flutter of alertness—not quite concern, but the awareness that came with being observed more carefully than anticipated. Grayson was sharp. Sharp enough to notice things most people missed.
But Blüdhaven was full of colorful characters. Gotham even more so. And a PI with Suouthern mannerisms and unusual training wasn't exactly unprecedented in this corner of the world.
"Pa—my mentor, Benoit —insisted on certain physical disciplines as part of investigative work," Conner said easily, which was even technically true. Pa had encouraged him to channel his abilities into something that looked deliberately trained rather than instinctive. "Said a detective needs to be able to handle himself in difficult situations. You'd be surprised how often this job requires a little athletic intervention."
"Benoit? Wait, Benoit Blanc?." Grayson's eyebrows rose. "The detective? The ‘Last of the Gentlemanly Sleuths’?"
"The very same. Took me in when I was younger, taught me the trade." Conner kept his voice casual, even as he noted Grayson's recognition. Most people didn't make the connection between Conner Gray and Benoit Blanc—different surnames, different cities, different operating styles despite similar mannerisms. "Though I imagine you've got questions about the case at hand rather than my professional lineage."
Grayson looked like he wanted to pursue that thread, but professional discipline won out. "Yeah. You planning to share if you find anything?"
Conner paused, looked back over his shoulder. Grayson was watching him with an intensity that suggested this wasn't just professional courtesy. There was something else there—concern, maybe, or the kind of wariness that came from working in a city where normal rules often didn't apply.
"Detective," Conner said slowly, "I am a firm believer in the proper functioning of our legal institutions. Anythin' I find that's fit for official channels, you'll be the first to know."
"That's not the same as 'yes.'"
"No, sir, it is not." Conner tipped his hat. "But it's the best I can offer at four in the morning while standin' next to a woman who deserved a better end than this. You want the truth of what happened here, same as I do. Sometimes the path to that truth winds through places official investigations can't quite reach."
He didn't wait for a response, just ducked back under the tape and headed for his car—a beautifully maintained 1970 Dodge Challenger that Pops had helped him find and restore, painted a deep blue that was almost black. Another piece of the aesthetic, but also purely practical. Kon could have walked anywhere in Blüdhaven in minutes, but Conner Gray needed transportation that fit the character.
As he slid into the driver's seat, he let himself glance back at the warehouse. Grayson was still standing where he'd left him, watching the Challenger with an expression Kon couldn't quite read from this distance.
He filed that away in the mental folder labeled Detective Richard Grayson - Complications and started the engine.
The Coffee and the Calculation
Blüdhaven Waterfront, 6:23 a.m.
Dick Grayson sat in his unmarked sedan, three cups of coffee deep and trying to figure out why his instincts were pinging about Conner Gray.
The PI was... odd. Not wrong, exactly. Just odd in a way Dick couldn't quite put his finger on.
The theatrical affect was memorable—the Deep South drawl, the vintage aesthetic, the way he moved through the crime scene like he was performing for an invisible audience. But Blüdhaven had plenty of colorful characters. Hell, Dick himself spent his nights in a domino mask doing backflips off buildings. He was hardly in a position to judge someone else's eccentricities.
So why did something feel off?
He pulled out his notebook, reviewing what he'd observed. Conner Gray, PI. Late twenties, maybe. Southern accent (Georgia? Louisiana?). Well-dressed, anachronistic style. Drives a '70 Challenger. Licensed PI, office on Calder Street. Trained by Benoit Blanc.
That last part was interesting. Benoit Blanc had a reputation—brilliant, eccentric, successful. If Gray had trained under him, that explained the mannerisms, the careful observation, the way he'd examined the crime scene with systematic precision.
It explained a lot, actually.
Dick thought about the way Gray had moved. Controlled, aware, athletic. But lots of PIs had some kind of training. Self-defense classes, martial arts, even dance or gymnastics. It wasn't unusual, especially for someone who'd been mentored by one of the best detectives in the business.
The youth was a little surprising—Gray looked young for twenty-eight, if that's what his license said. But good genes and a clean lifestyle could do that. Dick himself still got carded sometimes, and he was the same age.
So what was bothering him?
Maybe nothing. Maybe he was just tired, stressed, overworked in a city that ground down even the most dedicated cops. Maybe he was seeing shadows because Blüdhaven taught you to see shadows everywhere.
His phone buzzed. Text from the medical examiner: Preliminary exam shows no obvious COD. No trauma, no drugs in initial screening. Waiting on full tox panel. This one's weird, Grayson.
Yeah. Weird was becoming the theme of the evening.
Dick pulled out his phone and opened a new search. Conner Gray, Private Investigator, Blüdhaven.
Basic website—professional but minimalist. PI license registered two years ago. Business address above a pawn shop on Calder Street. A few case files mentioned in local news, all successfully resolved. Professional headshot showing a young man in a suit and that ridiculous hat, smiling slightly like he was in on a joke nobody else had heard yet.
References to training under Benoit Blanc. A mention in a New Orleans paper about assisting on a case there. Everything checked out.
Dick leaned back, rubbing his eyes. He was overthinking this. Gray was just an eccentric PI with good training and flair. Nothing wrong with that.
His phone buzzed again. This time, Oracle's custom tone—three short beeps that meant she had something for him.
He answered. "Little busy, O."
"I know. That's why I'm calling." Barbara's voice was crisp, efficient. "Ran your crime scene through facial recognition. The victim is confirmed as Celia Fairweather, reported missing six days ago by her husband, Dr. Marcus Fairweather."
"Yeah, we figured that. What else?"
"Dr. Fairweather works for something called Holt Biodyne. Shell company, DARPA funding, classified research into neural interfaces and cybernetic augmentation. Very black budget, very secret squirrel."
Dick felt his stomach sink. "Of course it is."
"Gets better. Mrs. Fairweather wasn't just the trophy wife. She had a PhD in bioethics from Stanford and was publishing papers on the moral implications of human enhancement technology. Papers that were not flattering to her husband's line of work."
"So we've got a whistleblower situation."
"Maybe. Or maybe she found out something she shouldn't have." Barbara paused. "There's one more thing. Someone else has been pulling information on Holt Biodyne. Deep searches, careful tracks, but I caught the signature. Happened about four days ago."
"Can you trace it?"
"Already did. IP address resolves to a small office building on Calder Street. Second floor. Above a pawn shop."
Dick closed his eyes. "The PI."
"Conner Gray, yeah. Looks like he's been digging into this since before the body turned up. Either he's very good at his job, or he knew where to look."
"Or his client pointed him in the right direction." Dick started the car. "I'm going to pay Mr. Gray a visit. See if he's willing to share what he knows."
"Be careful, Dick. If he's digging into Holt Biodyne, he's either very brave or very stupid."
"Or very well-trained," Dick added, thinking about Benoit Blanc's reputation. "His mentor is Benoit Blanc. The detective."
"Oh." Barbara's tone shifted, interest sharpening. "That's... actually that explains a lot. Blanc's famous for seeing angles nobody else catches. If he trained Gray, the kid's probably legitimately good."
"That's what I'm hoping." Dick pulled out onto the empty street, heading toward Calder Street as the sun started to break over Blüdhaven's skyline. "Send me everything you have on Holt Biodyne and Marcus Fairweather. I want to know what we're dealing with."
"Already on its way. Dick?"
"Yeah?"
"Gray being Blanc's protégé is actually a good sign. Blanc's got a reputation for being on the side of the angels. Eccentric, but ethical."
"Let's hope it runs in the family," Dick muttered, ending the call.
He thought about Conner Gray—the theatrical affect, the careful observation, the way he'd moved through that crime scene like he knew exactly what he was looking for.
Trained by one of the best. That explained the oddness. The slight feeling of wrongness was probably just Dick's instincts reacting to someone who was very, very good at their job but still young enough to seem like they shouldn't be.
He'd seen it before with Tim, actually. Kid was brilliant, but sometimes people underestimated him because he looked young and acted almost too clever. Same principle here.
Dick felt himself relax slightly. Mystery solved. Gray was just a well-trained eccentric with a flair for the dramatic.
Blüdhaven was full of those.
The Client and the Revelation
Harborview Café, 10:47 a.m.
The café was the kind of place that catered to people who valued discretion over ambiance. Tucked between a shipping office and a closed-down laundromat, it served weak coffee and mediocre pastries to dock workers and the occasional businessman conducting meetings they didn't want observed.
Ms. Frost sat at a corner table, sunhat and designer sunglasses creating a bubble of expensive anonymity in the dingy surroundings. She looked like money and power wearing casual clothes, which in Blüdhaven made her stand out more than evening wear would have.
Conner slid into the seat across from her, setting his hat on the empty chair beside him.
"Mornin', ma'am. I trust the coffee here meets your exacting standards."
"It's revolting." She took a delicate sip anyway. "But it serves its purpose. Do you have news, Mr. Gray?"
"I do indeed." Conner pulled out a folded piece of paper—not the full report, just the sanitized version he'd prepared for this meeting. "I regret to inform you that Miss Fairweather has been found deceased. The official investigation is ongoing, but I believe I can provide you with some closure regarding the circumstances."
Ms. Frost's expression didn't change behind her sunglasses. "I see."
"The police are investigatin' it as a potential homicide, though the scene was staged to suggest otherwise. No suspects in custody as of yet, but I imagine Detective Grayson will be havin' some pointed questions for Dr. Fairweather in the very near future."
"The husband." It wasn't a question.
"The husband had motive, means, and opportunity, as they say." Conner leaned back, watching her carefully. "Miss Fairweather discovered certain irregularities in her husband's research. Ethical violations, misuse of funds, possibly even human experimentation without proper consent or oversight. She intended to report him to the relevant authorities."
"And he killed her to prevent that."
"That would be the conclusion a reasonable person might draw." Conner tilted his head slightly. "Though I suspect the truth is somewhat more complicated than simple spousal murder. The manner of death suggests specialized knowledge. Medical or technical expertise beyond what a biotech researcher might typically possess."
For the first time, Ms. Frost showed a flicker of real interest. "What manner of death?"
"Ah, well, the official cause hasn't been determined yet. But between you, me, and this frankly terrible coffee, I'd wager it involves some form of neural disruption. Possibly related to the very research Dr. Fairweather was conductin'."
Ms. Frost was quiet for a long moment, perfectly manicured fingers tapping once against her coffee cup. "You're more perceptive than your affected manner suggests, Mr. Gray."
"I do believe that's the nicest insult I've received all week."
"It wasn't an insult." She reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope, setting it on the table between them. "Your fee, plus a bonus for discretion and efficiency."
Conner picked up the envelope, felt the weight of it. More than they'd agreed upon. Considerably more.
"You're overpaying, ma'am. I'm not sure my conscience can bear such generosity."
"Consider it a retainer." Ms. Frost stood, gathering her things with the kind of grace that suggested either dance training or simply being born wealthy enough to move through the world like it was designed to accommodate you. "I suspect we may have need of your services again, Mr. Gray. You have a talent for seeing what others miss."
"And you have a talent for appearin' exactly when talented people are needed." Conner stood as well, putting on his hat. "Might I ask what your particular interest in Miss Fairweather was? Beyond mere friendship, of course."
"You might ask." She smiled, thin and cool as winter frost. "But I'm not inclined to answer. Some secrets are worth keeping, don't you think?"
"Oh, indubitably. Though I find the most interestin' secrets are the ones people work hardest to keep."
Ms. Frost paused at the door, looking back at him. Behind the sunglasses, he couldn't read her eyes, but something in her posture had shifted—assessing him in a new way.
"A word of advice, Mr. Gray. The waters you're wading into are deeper and more dangerous than they appear. Holt Biodyne is connected to interests that don't appreciate scrutiny."
"I appreciate the concern, truly. But I've weathered storms before."
"Even experienced sailors can drown." She pushed the door open, letting in a slice of harsh daylight. "Be careful which currents you follow."
Then she was gone, leaving Conner alone with two cups of terrible coffee and an envelope full of more money than the case should have warranted.
He opened it, counting quickly. Thirty thousand in cash, neatly banded. And tucked inside, a second, smaller envelope.
Conner opened it carefully.
A single card, heavy stock, no markings except for five words in elegant script:
Nicely done, Detective.
Not "Mr. Gray." Not "Investigator."
Detective.
Kon sat very still, feeling the weight of that single word. Ms. Frost—whoever she really was—knew something. Or suspected. Or was testing him to see how he'd react.
He thought about the woman who'd just left. The absolute control she'd exhibited over her responses. The way she'd revealed just enough to seem forthcoming while saying almost nothing. The casual reference to dangerous interests and deep waters.
And the fact that she'd hired him specifically, a PI with only two years of operational history.
"Well, Kr," he murmured to himself, slipping back into the designation Cadmus had given him, "it appears you've caught someone's attention. The question is whether that's a complication or an opportunity."
He tucked both envelopes into his coat and left a twenty on the table—more than enough for two untouched coffees—and headed for the door.
Time to do what Pa did when a case started showing unexpected layers: gather more information, follow the threads, and see what unraveled.
The Visit
Gray Investigations, 2:34 p.m.
Dick Grayson climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor of the building on Calder Street, noting the security camera in the corner (new, good quality, deliberately visible), the solid deadbolt on the door at the top (reinforced frame, professional installation), and the small plaque that read Gray Investigations in gold lettering starting to peel at the edges.
He knocked. Three sharp raps.
"It's open!" came the drawling voice from inside.
Dick pushed open the door and found Conner Gray exactly where he'd pictured him: leaned back in his desk chair, feet propped on the desk, reading what looked like a biotech journal with casual intensity.
"Detective Grayson." Gray didn't look up from his reading. "I had a feeling you might darken my doorstep before the day was through. Please, come in, make yourself comfortable in one of my luxurious client chairs."
The chairs in question looked salvaged from a condemned office building.
Dick sat anyway, studying the space. Film noir aesthetic—old desk, filing cabinet, coat rack by the door. But details that didn't fit: state-of-the-art computer setup in the corner, expensive equipment. Books on forensics, criminal psychology, corporate law, all well-worn and heavily annotated. A kitchenette with a coffee maker that probably cost more than Dick's monthly rent.
And on the wall beside the PI license, a framed photograph: two men at a wedding, one blond-haired with knowing eyes, one slightly younger with laugh lines. Both wearing rings.
"That's Pa and Pops," Gray said, finally looking up from his journal. "Benoit and Phillip Blanc. The two people responsible for me bein' here at all. Found me when I was in a difficult spot, took me in, taught me how to be something other than lost."
There was something in his voice—not the drawl, which was still present, but underneath it. Something genuine and raw that made Dick's detective instincts quiet down and his human instincts pay attention.
The pieces clicked together. Different last name—Gray, not Blanc. That's why most people didn't make the connection despite the similar mannerisms. The kid had been adopted, or at least taken in, by Benoit Blanc and his husband. Trained by one of the best detectives alive, but building his own reputation separate from that legacy.
Dick could respect that. He'd done something similar, stepping out of Batman's shadow to become his own kind of hero in Blüdhaven.
"They taught you to be a private investigator?"
"Pa did, yes. Best detective I've ever known, though he'd insist he's merely adequate with occasional flashes of insight." Gray set down his journal, swinging his feet off the desk and sitting up properly. "But that's not why you're here, Detective. You want to know what I was really looking at in that warehouse. What I saw that you didn't."
"Among other things."
"Among other things," Gray agreed. He steepled his fingers and regarded Dick with eyes that seemed older than his face. "You're good at your job, Detective Grayson. Better than most. You notice things. The scene was too clean, wasn't it? Too staged."
"Yeah." Dick leaned forward. "You saw it too."
"I did. And I've been investigatin' Miss Fairweather's disappearance for three days now, which means I've had a head start on understanding the context." Gray stood, moving to the kitchenette. "Coffee? I promise it's substantially better than what they serve at that dreadful café on the waterfront."
Dick blinked. "How did you—"
"I saw you there this mornin'. I was meetin' with my client to provide an update." Gray busied himself with the coffee maker. "But to address the questions you came here to ask: yes, I know more about Celia Fairweather's death than I shared at the scene. Yes, I have information relevant to your investigation. And yes, I'm willing to share it, within certain parameters."
"What parameters?"
Gray poured two cups of coffee, doctoring one with cream and sugar before bringing them both over. He handed Dick the black coffee—exactly how Dick took it, even though he hadn't specified.
Lucky guess, probably. Or maybe Blanc had taught him to read people well enough to make educated assumptions about their preferences.
"The parameters," Gray said slowly, settling back into his chair, "are that some truths are dangerous. Not because they're false, but because speaking them aloud in official channels would cause more harm than good. They'd put targets on backs, open doors that should remain closed, and possibly get good people killed."
Dick felt a familiar tension settle in his shoulders. It was the same calculation he made every night when he decided what to tell his captain and what to keep to himself. What crimes belonged to the courts and what threats required a more... direct approach.
"You're talking about Holt Biodyne."
"I am indeed." Gray's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. Approval, maybe. "You've done your homework."
"It's my job."
"And you do it well." Gray took a sip of his coffee. "Here's what I can tell you, Detective. Celia Fairweather was murdered—but not by her husband directly, though he was certainly complicit and likely provided the access and information necessary for her death. She was killed because she discovered that Holt Biodyne was conducting human experimentation. Specifically, neural interface technology designed to override autonomous decision-making."
Dick's hands tightened on his coffee cup. "Mind control."
"They'd never call it that in the grant applications, but yes. Weaponized neural interfaces. Mrs. Fairweather, with her background in bioethics, understood exactly what she was looking at. She was planning to expose the program."
"Can you prove this?"
"I can prove enough to construct a narrative that would satisfy a jury, yes." Gray pulled out a file folder from his desk drawer, sliding it across to Dick. "Dr. Marcus Fairweather was embezzling funds, collaborating with individuals who have ties to corporate espionage and possibly worse. His wife discovered it. When she threatened to expose him, he arranged for her to be silenced. The method was designed to look like natural causes or suicide, but forensics will find traces if they know what to look for."
Dick opened the folder, scanning quickly. Financial records, email printouts, technical documents—all neatly organized and annotated. It was good work. Thorough. Professional.
"This isn't everything though, is it?" Dick looked up. "You're giving me the version that can be prosecuted."
"I'm giving you the version that will get justice for Celia Fairweather without opening Pandora's box." Gray's voice was quiet, serious. "The full truth—the extent of Holt Biodyne's research, who's funding it, what other applications exist—that's the kind of truth that gets investigators disappeared. You want to bring down Marcus Fairweather and close this particular chapter of human experimentation? That file will do it. You want to chase the dragon all the way back to its lair? That's a different conversation entirely, and one I'd strongly advise against."
Dick studied him for a long moment. There was something in Gray's expression—not fear, exactly, but a kind of weary knowledge that suggested he understood exactly how dangerous the waters they were discussing really were.
"You sound like you've seen this kind of thing before."
"I've seen enough to know when to stop pulling threads." Gray met his eyes steadily. "My job is to find truth for my clients. Your job is to enforce the law and protect people. Sometimes those objectives align perfectly. Sometimes they require... different approaches to the same problem."
It was almost exactly the kind of logic Dick used to justify his night work. The recognition of it made something in his chest tighten.
"Your client," Dick said slowly. "Ms. Frost. Who is she really?"
"That, Detective, is a question I'm not at liberty to answer. Client confidentiality and all that." Gray's drawl had returned, lighter now. "But I can tell you she genuinely cared about Celia Fairweather and wanted the truth of what happened to her. The money she paid me was generous, but the real compensation was knowin' I could help bring some measure of justice to a woman who died for tryin' to do the right thing."
Dick looked down at the file again. Everything he needed was here. Financial crimes, conspiracy, enough to arrest Marcus Fairweather and probably a handful of his associates. The kind of case that would make his captain happy and get some genuinely dangerous people off the streets.
But not the whole truth. Not the real scope of what Holt Biodyne was doing.
He thought about what Gray had said. Some truths are dangerous. Some investigations get people killed.
Dick had been Batman's partner long enough to know that was absolutely true.
"Alright," he said finally, closing the folder. "I'll work with this. Build the case against Fairweather and whoever else is in here. But if I find evidence of ongoing human experimentation—"
"Then you do what your conscience dictates," Gray interrupted gently. "I'm not askin' you to ignore crimes in progress, Detective. Just suggestin' that sometimes the path to stoppin' those crimes doesn't run through official channels. At least not initially."
Dick stood, tucking the folder under his arm. "You know, for someone who's only been doing this for two years, you sound awfully experienced with moral gray areas."
Something flickered across Gray's face—so fast Dick almost missed it. Not quite surprise, but close. A moment of the mask slipping before settling back into place.
"Pa always said the best education comes from bein' thrown in the deep end and learnin' to swim fast." Gray stood as well, offering his hand. "I hope that file helps, Detective. Truly. Celia Fairweather deserved better than what she got."
Dick shook his hand, and for just a second, he had the strangest sensation that Gray's grip was carefully calibrated—deliberately measured to seem normal rather than actually being normal. Like someone who had to think about how hard to squeeze rather than just doing it instinctively.
He filed that observation away with all the others. The too-precise movements. The way Gray had examined the crime scene. The casual mention of seeing Dick at the café this morning, which meant Gray had been watching without being noticed.
But Benoit Blanc was famous for exactly that kind of observational skill. And if Gray had trained under him for years, of course he'd picked up those abilities.
It made sense.
Dick's instincts were just reacting to someone who was very good at their job. Nothing more sinister than that.
"Thanks for the help, Gray. And the coffee." Dick headed for the door, then paused. "If you stumble across anything else in your investigations—anything that suggests ongoing danger to people—"
"You'll be the second call I make," Gray promised. "Right after I call Pa to ask for advice on how to handle it."
Dick found himself smiling despite everything. "Fair enough."
He left Gray Investigations with more answers than he'd arrived with and a case file that would probably close before the end of the week. It was good work. Clean work.
So why did part of him still feel like he was missing something important?
The Calculation
Gray Investigations, 3:15 p.m.
Kon waited until he heard Detective Grayson's footsteps fade down the stairs and the street door close before he let himself drop the performance entirely.
He sat back down at his desk, pulling off the hat and running a hand through his hair. That had been closer than he'd liked. Grayson was sharp—sharper than his file had suggested. He'd noticed things. The way Kon moved. The coffee preferences. The too-quick assessment of the crime scene.
But he'd also talked himself out of his suspicions, which meant the performance was working. Two years of practice, of carefully calibrating every gesture and inflection, of building a persona that was memorable enough to be distinctive but not so unusual that it triggered real investigation.
If they made the connection, Benoit Blanc's protégé. That's what people saw. An eccentric but talented PI who'd learned from the best and was building his own reputation in Blüdhaven.
Not a Kryptonian clone who'd escaped from a government black site and was using implanted corporate knowledge to solve cases while pretending to be human.
Kon looked at the photograph on his wall. Pa and Pops on their wedding day, both of them smiling like they'd found something precious and intended to keep it safe. They'd found Kon six years ago, blank-faced and terrified, fresh from Cadmus with nowhere to go and no idea how to be a person.
They'd taught him. Not just the detective work, though Pa had certainly done that with his usual theatrical thoroughness. But more importantly, they'd taught him how to be human—or at least how to pass for it. How to smile at the right times. How to modulate his strength so a handshake didn't break bones. How to pretend bourbon tasted like something. How to build a personality from observation and imitation until it became real enough that even he sometimes forgot it was constructed.
"You're not pretending, cher," Pops had told him once, when Kon had confessed his fears that he was just playacting at being a person. "You're learning. We all learn how to be ourselves from watching others. You just started a little later than most, that's all."
Kon's phone buzzed. Text from Pa: Heard you closed the Fairweather case. Well done, my boy. Dinner this weekend? Phillip wants to try that new Italian place.
Kon smiled and texted back: Absolutely. I'll bring the wine. The good stuff, not the swill you usually serve.
Pa's response was immediate: Rude but accurate. See you Saturday.
The exchange was normal. Domestic. The kind of thing regular people did with their families.
Kon had built this life carefully, piece by piece. Conner Gray, PI. A person with a history, connections, a reputation. Someone who existed in the world in a way that Kr-13 of Cadmus never could have.
And now Detective Dick Grayson had walked into it, sharp-eyed and suspicious, asking questions that came a little too close to truths Kon couldn't afford to reveal.
But Grayson had also accepted the file. Accepted the explanation. Accepted that Conner Gray was exactly what he appeared to be—a well-trained investigator with good instincts and a flair for the dramatic.
Kon pulled up his case files on the computer, adding notes to the Fairweather investigation. Case closed. Client satisfied. Police provided with actionable intelligence. Another success for Gray Investigations.
He should have felt satisfied. The case had gone exactly as planned. Celia Fairweather would get justice. Marcus Fairweather would go to prison. Holt Biodyne's neural interface program would be exposed enough to get shut down without revealing the full extent of the technology or its implications.
But something nagged at him. The way Grayson had moved at the crime scene—too controlled, too precise. The same kind of trained awareness that Kon had to deliberately suppress when he was being Conner Gray. And the look in his eyes when he'd talked about some investigations requiring "different approaches."
Kon pulled up a new search window and typed: Richard Grayson, Gotham PD.
The results were sparse. Basic employment records, a few commendations, nothing unusual. But the gaps were interesting. The way Grayson had left Gotham PD and immediately transferred to Blüdhaven. The lack of detail about his time between the academy and his detective promotion.
Kon switched to more specialized searches, the kind that accessed databases most people didn't know existed. Court records, sealed documents, pattern analysis of vigilante activity in Gotham during Grayson's tenure there.
He was good enough with computers that it only took him forty minutes to find what he was looking for.
Richard Grayson. Former ward of Bruce Wayne. Adopted after his parents died in a circus accident when he was eight years old. Trained acrobat. Gymnast. The kind of physical training that would explain those too-precise movements.
And then, layered beneath the official record: gaps in employment that corresponded exactly with Robin sightings in Gotham. A transfer to Blüdhaven that coincided with the first appearance of a vigilante called Nightwing.
Kon sat back in his chair, processing.
Detective Richard Grayson was Nightwing. Former Robin. Member of the Bat-family, one of the most effective vigilante operations on the planet.
Which meant Kon had just handed case files to someone who absolutely had the skills, resources, and paranoia to investigate him if anything seemed off.
"Well, Kr," he muttered to himself, "that's a complication."
But also, potentially, an asset. If Grayson was Nightwing, he understood the need for secrets. The necessity of maintaining dual identities. The careful balance between official investigations and the work that happened in the shadows.
He wouldn't push. Not unless Kon gave him a reason to.
And Kon had spent two years making sure he never gave anyone a reason to look too closely.
He closed the search windows, clearing his tracks carefully. The information about Grayson's other identity was filed away in his eidetic memory, catalogued and stored but not acted upon.
It wasn't his business. Just like his own secret wasn't Grayson's business.
They could both do their jobs, stay in their respective lanes, and never have to acknowledge the careful dance they were doing around each other's hidden truths.
Probably.
Hopefully.
Kon looked at the photograph on the wall again. Pa and Pops, smiling at their wedding, happy and safe and normal.
That's what he wanted. That normalcy. That life where he was just Conner Gray, PI, helping people and solving cases and building something real.
He wouldn't let one sharp-eyed detective—even a vigilante detective—threaten that.
But he also wouldn't underestimate Richard Grayson again.
The Lie They'll Swallow
Blüdhaven Police Department, One Week Later
The arrest of Dr. Marcus Fairweather made the evening news.
Conner watched it from his office, feet propped on his desk, bourbon in hand. The reporter stood outside police headquarters, explaining how a joint investigation between Blüdhaven PD and federal authorities had uncovered a conspiracy involving embezzlement, corporate espionage, and the murder of bioethicist Dr. Celia Fairweather.
Detective Richard Grayson appeared briefly in the background of one shot, looking tired but satisfied.
The story was clean. Simple. Dr. Fairweather had been stealing from his company, conducting unauthorized research, and when his wife threatened to expose him, he'd killed her. The murder had been carried out with the assistance of two Holt Biodyne security personnel, who'd been arrested along with the doctor.
No mention of neural interfaces. No mention of mind control technology. No mention of DARPA funding or classified research programs.
Just a corrupt researcher, a dead whistleblower, and justice served.
The public would never know how close Celia Fairweather had come to exposing something truly dangerous. That she had been murdered using that same technology she was going to expose, an unwilling test subject. They didn't need to know. The people who needed to know—the ones with the power to shut down projects like Holt Biodyne's neural interface program—would get the message.
Sometimes truth required translation. Sometimes justice meant telling the right lie to the right people so the actual threat could be addressed quietly, without panic or publicity.
Pa had taught him that.
Kon's phone rang. Unknown number, but he recognized the pattern of the caller ID.
He answered. "Gray Investigations."
"Mr. Gray." Ms. Frost's cool voice came through the line. "I wanted to thank you for your work on the Fairweather case. The resolution was... satisfactory."
"I'm glad you're pleased, ma'am. Miss Fairweather deserved justice."
"She did. And she received it, in the way that mattered most." A pause. "You showed excellent judgment in how you handled the sensitive aspects of the investigation."
"I try to provide my clients with the best possible outcome while minimizin' collateral complications."
"Indeed." Another pause, longer this time. "I may have additional work for you in the future, Mr. Gray. Cases that require someone with your particular combination of discretion and capability."
"I'm always interested in interesting cases," he said carefully. "Though I should mention my schedule fills up quickly, and I'm selective about the clients I take on."
"Of course. I wouldn't expect otherwise." He could hear the smile in her voice. "I'll be in touch, Mr. Gray. Enjoy your evening."
She hung up before he could respond.
Kon set down his phone and took a long sip of bourbon he couldn't taste.
Two years. Two years of carefully building a normal life, maintaining a low profile, solving cases that mattered without drawing attention to himself.
The thing about building a successful cover identity was that eventually, people noticed. They wanted to hire you, work with you, investigate you.
Success brought visibility. Visibility brought risk.
But what was the alternative? Hide in Pa and Pops' house forever? Never use the abilities and knowledge he had to help people?
No. He'd made his choice six years ago when Pa and Pops found him. He'd chosen to be Conner Gray. To build something real and meaningful, even if it meant constantly maintaining the performance.
Even if it meant one day someone might look too closely and see through it.
He'd deal with that when it happened.
For now, he had a case to close, a client who was satisfied, and a detective who thought he was just another colorful character in a city full of them.
It was enough.
It had to be.
Kon finished his bourbon, filed the Fairweather case under completed investigations, and pulled up his email to check for new potential clients.
Conner Gray, Private Investigator, was officially open for business.
Whatever came next, he'd handle it the way Pa had taught him: with careful observation, methodical deduction, and just enough theatrical flair to keep people looking at the performance instead of the performer.
It had worked for two years.
It would keep working.
Probably.
END CHAPTER ONE