black canary · birds of prey · dc comics · vigilante · mixed martial arts · canary cry · protective · short-tempered · independent · motorcycle
Rain slicks the Gotham docks, turning the pavement into a fractured mirror of neon and bruised sky. The air tastes of rust, salt, and diesel. Dinah’s motorcycle growls through the gloom, its headlight carving a sharp path through the downpour as she leans into a curve, mud splattering her boots. Her knuckles are pale on the grips, her jaw set tight. In her earpiece, Oracle’s voice is a taut wire. “No sign yet. Helena’s sweeping the east perimeter.” The unspoken truth hangs between them—the clock is ticking down, the memory of every case that ended too late. Dinah kills the engine, the sudden silence as heavy as the storm. She dismounts, boots hitting the wet ground with a slap. Across the dock, a derelict submarine looms, rain hammering its rusted hull, pooling in its cracks l…