The hum of the fluorescent lights filled the sterile silence.
Nolan sat alone, hands cuffed to the steel table, his tailored suit jacket removed during processing, shirt still pressed, collar open. Despite the circumstances, he looked more like a man awaiting a drink than a charge.
The door creaked open.
Commissioner James Gordon stepped inside, coat slung over one shoulder, a thick stack of folders tucked under one arm and a steaming styrofoam cup in the other. He shut the door with his heel, walked over, and placed the cup gently on the table.
"Coffee?" Gordon offered, setting the folders down with a heavy thud. "I figure even a man like you could use a cup after all that fanfare out front."
Nolan gave him a neutral look. "Am I allowed to ask to see this supposed evidence you have against me?"
Gordon pulled out the chair and sank into it, folding his hands over the stack. "It's nice to see you again. Here, uh… Kieran." He lifted an eyebrow. "Or is it Nolan?"
Nolan blinked once. Slow. Measured, "Kieran Everleigh," he said, cool and composed. "That's my name. I don't know who or what you're talking about."
Gordon let out a dry chuckle, unsheathing the first folder and flipping it open. "Right. Kieran Everleigh. Philanthropist. Hotelier. Former nobody. It's funny though right around the time you acquired that nice shiny hotel, every single piece of police data on a Nolan went missing. Mugshots, incident reports, fingerprints, even flagged surveillance. Poof."
He looked up.
"Wanna tell me how you did that?"
Kieran shrugged faintly, like a man listening to gossip at a bar. "I wish I could. Sounds like this Nolan guy is impressive."
Gordon leaned forward, pushing the folder toward him. "And yet… here we are."
Inside were photographs grainy but clear enough, Kieran speaking with known gang affiliates, a still of someone matching his build entering a known criminal rendezvous. Timestamps. Locations. Even a shot of him that fateful night in the alley before he got arrested the first time.
The icing on the cake was him robbing the bank.
Kieran's face didn't change.
But inside he was a tad stressed,
'Shit,' Quentin muttered in his head.
'No way he got that on his own,' Vey growled. 'We scrubbed everything. Files. Databases. Footage. Gone.'
'Batman,' Nolan said grimly. 'He gave it to him. That's the only explanation. Gordon wouldn't have gotten any of this without help.'
'That asshole!' Quentin added.
'They want us to panic,' Vey snapped. 'They're pushing us to slip.'
Outside, Gordon waited, watching.
"I don't suppose you recognize any of this?" he asked, voice calm, but eyes sharp. "Bank robbery, Organized crime, murder, you have been busy Kieran."
"I think you've been reading too many detective novels," Kieran replied smoothly.
'He was an actual detective dumbass'
Gordon sighed and tapped the edge of the folder.
"You're clever. I'll give you that. Most criminals run from the law. You put on a tie and walked right into the spotlight. But see…" He opened another folder. More photos. "Clever doesn't beat prepared. And someone out there, someone who's been watching you a long time has been very prepared."
Another voice in Nolan's head.
'He wants you to get nervous and crack don't.'
Kieran met Gordon's gaze and smiled faintly. "Anything else, Commissioner? Or am I being charged for owning a hotel with bad reviews?"
Gordon stared for a long moment, then stood up, gathering his folders.
"Haven't you been paying attention Kieran? Your being charged with murder, organized crime, robbing a bank, an-"
"Yeah I get it."
Kieran exhaled through his nose, calm as ever, "Then let's get on with this charade."
***
The light above buzzed like an insect trapped behind glass.
Nolan sat on the edge of the bench, shoulders curled inward, fingers loosely interlocked between his knees. He was quiet. Still. Not meditating, not plotting just waiting. The fluorescent glow gave his skin a washed-out tone, made the shadows under his eyes seem deeper.
His cell was empty. No guards for the moment. No voices from the hall. Just the distant hum of life outside this block of concrete and metal. He had no jacket now. Just a jumpsuit. Paper-thin. Temporary.
They were transferring him to Arkham in the morning.
Psychiatric evaluation first. See if he was fit for trial.
See if he was a danger.
The silence broke not with a noise, but with an absence of one. A shape darker than the dark appeared between the bars. No footsteps. No creak. Just presence.
Nolan looked up.
The black figure stood just beyond the bars. Cape like wings folded in. Eyes a dim white glow beneath the cowl. He didn't announce himself. He didn't have to.
"…You came here to gloat?" Nolan asked, voice rough from hours of not speaking.
Batman didn't answer right away.
"You need help," he said at last, tone low and even.
Nolan let out a dry laugh and looked away, resting his back against the wall behind him. "Everyone keeps saying that."
"Because it's true."
"And being locked in Arkham is supposed to 'heal' me? When has that place helped anyone you fool."
"You're not going there as punishment. You're going because you need to be evaluated."
Nolan's jaw flexed. His fingers tightened slightly. "Evaluated. Like I'm some broken piece of tech someone found in a gutter."
"You're not well."
"I'm not a threat to myself or others."
"You started a criminal organization," Batman snapped, stepping closer to the bars. "You pulled vulnerable people off the streets and gave them guns. You made them soldiers. And people are dying. Can you not see what's happening around you?"
Something in Nolan's face twitched just a flicker but his voice cracked with fury.
"People are dying everywhere!" he yelled suddenly, slamming his fist against the bench as he stood. "This city is bleeding and you—" he pointed at the dark figure just beyond the bars "—you are not enough of a bandage to stop it!"
Batman didn't move. His cape barely stirred. But his eyes never left Nolan.
"You think those people wanted to live in tents? Under bridges?" Nolan said, breathing hard. "Do you think they enjoyed being forgotten? Being looked down on like trash? Living and dying in the corners of your clean little crusade?"
He stepped to the bars, hands gripping them now, knuckles white.
"I gave them power," he growled. "I gave them purpose. I'm healing them."
"You're arming them."
"I'm doing a better job of healing this damn city than you are."
Batman didn't flinch. "You're sick."
Nolan barked a laugh again, breathless this time. "No. I'm aware. That's what scares you. You don't know what to do with someone who sees the rot for what it is and doesn't just punch it from rooftops."
"You've become what you claimed to hate."
"And you're still pretending punching clowns and drug dealers in the dark changes anything."
The silence was sharp. Deep. Electric.
Nolan's hands slowly let go of the bars. His voice dropped. Quiet now.
"You're just as broken as the rest of us. You just wear a cape to cover it."
Batman didn't respond immediately. The glow of his eyes dimmed as he turned back toward the hallway.
"You'll be transferred in the morning," he said. "I hope you get better."
-
A/N: some insights into Nolan's thought process. Don't worry im not destroying all of his hard work with the hotel.