"Dahlia, breathe."

Her face was buried in her palms while slumped on the floor of Crane's kitchen. The strength had drained from her legs. Her chest hurt so much - she didn't know why, but she felt as if she were in tremendous danger. She couldn't catch her breath between gentle sobs, trembling. Finally, she managed to mutter, "Oh Jesus, oh Jesus. Does he know? Jon, does he know? Is he mad at me? ..."

Both of Crane's gentle hands were at her shoulders. "He's mad at me, Dahlia, not you. Breathe."

For some reason the comment just upset her more. A cold chill ran through her body and she struggled again to inhale. Finally, Crane sat on the tile floor with her, and adjusted his position to be side-by-side. His arms wrapped around her and he held her close. "Follow me, breathe. Let's count to 10."

She followed, very roughly at first. But he kept holding her and continued, softly counting after each exhale. By the time he reached 10, she finally felt like oxygen was hitting her lungs. Each breathe became more stable and heavy. Weakly she asked the void, "What's wrong with me?"

While one hand rubbed her side, his other carefully wiped some moisture from her face. "An anxiety disorder, I think."

She spoke calmly and freely, face still expressing anguish. "My hands feel like ice."

Crane's hands moved to hers and massaged them carefully, squeezing rhythmically from the palms to the fingers. "You're alright, Dahlia. You're safe." She weakly leaned against him, continuing to make manual efforts to breathe.

Two of Crane's men in the front seats of the SUV quietly spoke with each other. The next two in the middle seats were silent. In the back, alone, sat the Banshee. Who had been brooding and silent all night with them so far. And on this same night, one dared to begin a conversation. A man in the middle seats turned to the side. After giving her a look that she didn't care for, he asked, "You know if you screw this up, we're out a lot of money. Dodge don't pay no chump money. You gonna be able to handle this, Little Miss?"

In no time, the Banshee was inches from his face and an object was pressed to his neck, creating a divot in the skin.

"Would you like to find out for yourself, if I can handle it?"

With a small smirk, he replied, "No, ma'am. I'm good."

The Banshee didn't move for a moment. Then she reclined back, and swung her legs up atop the back of the middle seats. She deliberately struck him in the back of the head as she swung one boot over the other. Much to her disappointment, there was no rebuttal. The knife Amelia Kendrick gifted was tucked back into her waistband. She wasn't sure what came over her to act that way and on such impulse, but the strangeness of it was quickly buried by the commitment of the job.

Theirs was the second SUV that arrived at the designated space at the docks, concealed between a nearly endless yard of shipping containers. Three men exited the van and began to scout and secure the perimeter. Once they got a signal, the rest followed. The Banshee stepped out last. As she did, the other vehicle's door opened and out spilled Dodge's crew. From the passenger side door emerged a young man in a tan suit. He was pale and thin, with a round face and rosacea speckling his cheeks. As he and Banshee approached each other, the pale man spoke first, his voice tinny and youthful. "I thought we were meeting with Jonathan Crane, not a lost girl."

She couldn't tell if Crane deliberately didn't tell them, if it slipped his mind, or if this guy was just being an asshole. Regardless, Dahlia took a half moment to stifle her growing anger towards all of the men around her. Then she responded, professionally, "Dr. Crane apologizes for not being here tonight. But he can assure that you'll be well taken care of by his second-in-command."

It felt really good to say that.

Based off just a hunch, Dahlia wondered if this was Dodge himself. She couldn't see this tiny man being such an imposing figure. Someone with so much wealth and power surely would have better manners, right? The person in front or her seemed like a stunted accountant. It was a risk, but she took it. "So, where is your employer?" Her masked head bobbed slightly to the side.

The pale man waited a beat before turning and motioning towards their SUV. The back door opened and out stepped a distinguished looking man. She knew that this was, without a doubt, Richard Dodge. And he was a handsome man - Late thirties or early forties, a strong jawline and cheekbones, tan and glowing skin, clean-shaven, broad shoulders. Jokingly, Dahlia wondered to herself if she had seen him before on the cover of a men's health magazine.

Like several other men before him, Richard Dodge's gaze didn't leave the Banshee as he approached the circle. But unlike others, he wore a pleased smile - showcasing perfectly straight white teeth - and didn't gawk. Once close enough to the pale man, Dodge planted a hand on his shoulder and said with a mature voice, "Mr. Reid, I hope you're behaving yourself in front of the fairer sex." The pale man stepped back.

"Richard Dodge. Pleasure to meet you!" He offered his hand. The Banshee accepted. And when their hands clasped, Dodge closed his opposite hand around hers during their shake. "Pity that Dr. Crane couldn't make it, I was looking forward to meeting the maker of nightmares. But I'm equally enthused to be graced by the presence of the Banshee. I gotta say, you're much more entrancing in person."

Dahlia slid her hand away from both of his. She didn't know how to respond, so simply didn't. "Onto business, Mr. Dodge."

Nodding and waving Mr. Reid away, Dodge replied, "Yes, let's!" the pale man clearly took some offense, and turned and walked away with a poorly disguised sulk. Dodge explained,

"I'm sure Dr. Crane must have filled you in on my entrepreneurial ambitions. But just in case he didn't - I recently acquired a line of nationwide department stores, called Fentons. And up until recently, we've been doing well in Gotham. But Killinger's is doing us one better. I'm not sure where they're getting their stocks from to be able to afford keeping things so cheap, but I'm sad to report that it's working in taking our customers."

At this point, Dodge took a step closer to the Banshee. She in turn took a step back to maintain the comfort of the distance. Dodge gave an amused chuckle, then continued, "I need Killinger's to be outed as a place where dangerous people shop. Maybe ..." he shrugged, and suggested, "there's an anonymous gang raid, and maybe the building's torn apart by some sore connection. Maybe a terrorist attack scares the public into believing that their spent dollars had funded more weapons flooding into their streets. I'm not the sharp one here though, that's up to brilliant minds of both yourself and Dr. Crane."

His flattery went no where. The Banshee succinctly queried, "When does this need to take place?"

"Any time within the next month. Preferably a weekend and during the day, for max payoff and to avoid the Batman as much as possible."

The thought of terrorizing innocent shoppers didn't sit well with Dahlia at all. He thankfully made no mention of harm coming to these people. The ball was in their court, after all. Only one thing stood out to Dahlia to clarify. "When will we be paid?"

"Half now, half later. And ... I'd be happy to throw in a really nice dress that I think you'd like."

The Banshee didn't respond. It didn't seem to bother Dodge one bit.

Offering his hand again, he asked, "Do we have a deal?"

There were probably a few more questions she could have asked, but each second that passed became a trying experience. Reaching a hand out, the Banshee replied, "We have an understanding, Mr. Dodge. Dr. Crane will be in touch with you soon." Then she gave a firm handshake and turned back towards the car and waved for the men to follow.

"I hope I get to see you again, very soon!" Dodge called out after her.