It doesn't take long for him to realize. Not where he's being directed, just that he's being directed at all. That every arrow that flies at him steers him one step closer toward something, something, something he doesn't know about, but it doesn't matter, because whatever it is can't be good. It's her with the advantage, it's him pinned, unfamiliar ground, the possibility of losing.

He can't have that. He has a meeting to attend.

He's got a murderer to exsanguinate.

And so he listens sharply, listens for a twang, listens, listens for-

There it is, the sound of wind, of something fast approaching, something almost bullet fast but not quite, whizzing through air, wizzing to his- to his-

Right.

He whirls, blade coming up, slicing through the air, splintering through the arrow. It's close. It's so fucking close his heart races, shavings of wood pepper his padded protective vest, but he got it, and he knows, now, that she was aiming for him to bank left.

He only hesitates for a second, and then his body's springing in the opposite direction. She took an earlier alley, she shot the arrow and changed course hoping to head him off, maybe he can shake her. Maybe he can lose her, by altering it.

He's got to think fast, and his feet carry him somewhere his mind only processes once he's actually heading that way. He's heading into the open- but not just that, he's heading for people. For civilians. He's heading for the sound of footsteps and chatter. He's masked, he's outfitted, he'll attract attention, but that's good, because it's what neither of them want. She can't shoot arrows at him at the risk of taking out an innocent, and if both of their strategies are to hide in the shadows, it's time to shake things up.

It's time to throw himself out of his comfort zone because she's got the upper hand in it.